


For Both Are Infinite

by CourierNinetyTwo, QuickYoke



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Pirate Queen Sylvanas AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-09-30 04:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: When the Ashvanes drive the Proudmoores from Kul Tiras, Jaina calls on the Banshee of the Sea to save her family, but it comes at a price she may not survive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a conversation about how good pirate aesthetic is turns into a whole AU.

Whether they called her Dread Admiral, a pirate queen, or the Banshee of the Sea, there was one simple truth about Sylvanas Windrunner and her fleet: no quarry escaped alive.

She devoted a great deal of time and energy into reinforcing that truth, which was why amusement pulled at the edge of her mouth as the Ashvane blockade runner disappeared into a bank of fog. The band of islands they had sailed into was all bay and no breach; it was a jagged crescent of land, without a way past save running aground.

Surely the sailors thought themselves clever, that they could turn around in the fog and stall until her patience waned. Such hubris was wine-sweet; Sylvanas had centuries of restraint, enough to wear down any target, be they living or dead. Her ships were already arranged in a half-circle that cupped the bay, close enough to see one another despite the choking mist. No Ashvane would slip by them, and a runner wouldn't carry the supplies to last more than an extra day or two at sea--it would slow them down.

This one had already been impressively sedate. When Nathanos spotted the vessel, Sylvanas first thought to ignore it; she didn't care for whatever messages were being secreted to and fro across the waves, dictating politics on patches of earth she couldn't set foot on. Yet no message would sink a blockade runner like iron, weight tugging at the tides. Something of value lay inside, worth turning ship to albatross.

It fled the moment black chains and eminence sails broke the horizon, but Sylvanas' scouts were sharp, giving chase as the rest of the fleet turned to follow. The Banshee's Wail responded to her command like a lover, making haste against the limits of a battleship, keen yet swift. She traced the aged wooden railing with a finger, considering her next move as the command to halt carried from vessel to vessel; Defiance to Queen's Reprisal, Windrunner to Blightcaller, Oblivion to Eternity, with the Black Rose calling back to her again.

Her Forsaken crew made for a haunting chorus, _Dark Lady watch over us_ spilling across the sea, echo upon echo. Sylvanas once detested the title; it was used by her fellow elves, those who refused to acknowledge her old rank as Admiral of Silvermoon after her death, but these were her people, elf or not, and they meant every word with respect.

"Nathanos." She had no need to raise her voice; as flag captain, he existed as her shadow, ready to both command this ship and carry out orders dutifully. "How do far do you think the Ashvanes will sink if they capsize?"

He chuckled, the sound rattling through hollow ribs. "Quite far, admiral. Whatever is hiding in the hold has nearly drowned them already."

"Good. We could use a few more souls in our frigates." Sylvanas drew the weight of her bow over her back, thumb offering a fond stroke along the string. "I won't waste our time starving them out. This will be over quickly enough."

Dark energy pricked beneath her skin, ten thousand spectral thorns yearning to split flesh and break forth. She focused, welcomed the pain as swelled and coiled, tighter and tighter. The sinew of Sylvanas' soul quivered, then severed into infinite threads as the banshee emerged from her body with a piercing wail: " _Silence! You will all be still."_

The command reverberated through the fleet like a blow, sending ship and sailor alike trembling. They obeyed in an instant, faster than a mortal breath could be drawn, for the force of their admiral's will was yoke and compulsion in equal measure. Sylvanas herself was immune to such exigency, save for the pull of the Lich King, now distant and scattered.

With her fleet quiet, no flap of sail nor draw of rope, no movement nor voice among them, Sylvanas sank back into her self and listened to the rhythm of the ocean. It soothed her at times, a torment at others, but on this day she sought what was out of sync with the sea. Through the fog, creaking wood and distant whispers made her ears flicker. The Ashvanes were a half a knot or so away, content with their shroud. Foolish to the end.

She plucked an arrow from her quiver, its vorpal head coated in black powder and a thick, amber resin. With the flick of her wrist, Sylvanas scraped it on the railing, sparks jumping from wood to steel. They caught, finding flame, and she nocked the arrow, letting the sound of the string settle so she could listen past the water again.

"Cannons," she whispered this time, but Nathanos heard her, and when he heard her, word spread like wildfire across the Wail. It jumped from deck to deck, and Sylvanas listened for every weapon as it was primed, counting as each one rolled against the bulwark, protruding through a line of gun ports.

Their work was wordless; the fleet had done this a thousand times before, and needed no instruction beyond their admiral's command. Her arrow sputtered and threatened to choke on the edge of the mist, but the magic in the flame held true, refusing to extinguish.

Sylvanas aimed through the fog, letting her body settle into the subtle rock of the ship, kissed by every wave. Her sight was irrelevant, cast aside for other senses, and the head of the arrow drifted up by an inch. The arc had to be clean.

The bowstring sighed as it slipped from Sylvanas' fingers, sending the missile in a soundless cut past the fog.

In a blink, it struck solid hull. A faint glow burned through the mist as the arrow exploded with light.

"Fire!" She bellowed, and thunder answered.

Cannon after cannon ignited, and Sylvanas smiled as screams of agony and panic shot back across the water, what few Ashvanes had not been killed on the spot struggling to salvage some part of their ship. There was no chance; even if only half of her fleet's shots had landed, the blockade runner was a fragile bird, meant for flitting along the sea, and now doomed to collapse, taking their bounty along with them.

Of course, her Forsaken had no trouble swimming down to find it.

"Cannons back," Sylvanas snapped, but kept her bow drawn. There might be some stragglers in the sea, and such practice honed skill to a glorious edge. "Let us fetch our prize."

She sent another arrow into a drowning man's neck as the Banshee's Wail delved into the mist, his hands clutching at the shaft before he vanished beneath the water. A froth of red bubbled up, breaking the surface before it was swept away. Sylvanas had learned long ago that the ocean possessed a relentless thirst for blood, and no death was enough to sate it. She supposed that was fair; her influence permeated the sea, calling to every corpse they sailed past, and some arose from the abyss to join her, reborn as Forsaken. Such a passing could never satisfy a force of nature.

A skeleton of a ship awaited them, its hull blown to driftwood. Dead Ashvane soldiers floated amidst the wreckage, and the gleam of gold plunged deep, even deeper than Sylvanas had expected. She frowned.

"The Kul Tirans are growing arrogant," Sylvanas murmured, half to Nathanos and half to herself. "Why use a blockade runner to shepherd this much wealth? It was asking for any pirate with half a barrel of gunpowder to set them ablaze."

"Perhaps it was stolen from other parties." Nathanos stroked the heavy line of his beard. "Or they're so rich they're running out of ships to ferry their money about. Although last I heard, the houses were snapping at each other's throats."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Their politics are irrelevant to us, Nathanos. I care not for Alliance nor Horde."

The latter she had sailed for, once. Never again, while there was willpower left in this rotten frame called a body.

"It's relevant so much as someone may be desperately channeling funds towards their endeavors." He shrugged. "How many other vessels like this await near Kul Tiras, ripe to be plucked?"

A fair point. Such was part of why Sylvanas had made him flag captain to begin with, for even her wisdom needed a second voice on certain occasions. "Our fleet could use restocking. Pickings have been slim this last season."

"We could always go back to hooking airships," Nathanos answered with a grin, teeth bared. "Watching those hit the water never gets old."

Entertaining as that was, the energy that powered said airships tended to be so explosive that anything worth salvaging turned to ash, blackening the water. They needed reliable fare, for no ship that flew her banner could dock at any port in Azeroth without a proper summons. That hadn't happened in more than a decade, and Sylvanas was half-convinced there wasn't a spellcaster left alive that knew the rites for it.

No matter. There would always be other ships in the ocean, new prey for the Forsaken to feast upon. If Kul Tiras was glut with wealth, she would sail there to slice the finest cuts away for her people, and watch the land around them starve.

It was what the living deserved. Every single one of them.

"Bring us about!" Sylvanas called, and the last of her influence bled back into her body, leaving every ship free to move and speak as they willed. She shivered, whole again, but always hollow. "I want us in human waters by next light."

Nathanos shouted across the deck, and she tuned out the busywork of the crew while staring out across the Wail's bow. Her heart twinged, sharp and sudden, and Sylvanas swallowed back a curse. The organ didn't beat, hadn't past the point of memory, but now it pulled like the needle of a compass, drawn to the limits of her chest.

"Admiral?" a voice beside her said. Her head whipped around to level Nathanos with a hard look, and he took a step back. "Are you alright?"

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed to slits, dismissing the question before her gaze returned to the water.

Yet her heart still ached, out of sync with the tide.

\--

A crowd of angry cries echoed deep within the tall, stone walls of Proudmoore Keep. It would be hours yet before nightfall, but already a dim pall of fog cast its shadow over the land, rolling in from the sea and settling across the spires of the Keep, until even the harbour could not be seen from its siege-built windows. A crash thundered at the reinforced wooden doors that barred the Keep’s entrance. Dust shuddered from the green-bordered tapestries lining the walls. Inside, candles sputtered upon their wicks, tall and smokey. Outside, torches bristled in clenched fists. A mob bayed at the gates, wielding axes and swords and a crudely hewn battering ram made from an unfinished ship’s mast.

They rammed the doors again, a deep boom like a clap of thunder resonating through the Keep. Jaina flinched from the noise, but her mother did not. With unfaltering steps, Katherine Proudmoore descended the staircase winding round the perimeter of the main tower. Her white hair was pinned back in its usual severe twist, not a strand out of place. Her mouth was pinched, her eyes unyielding.

“You shouldn’t have come back, Jaina.”

Jaina lengthened her stride to keep pace. Her staff clicked with every second step. “I couldn’t just leave you here alone.”

Without looking at her daughter, Katherine snorted. “So, _now_ you fear for my well-being? You never cared a fig for this House in the past. Why should you concern yourself with it now?” She waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “Go back to the Kirin Tor, or to your precious ruins of Theramore.”

Tensing with indignation, Jaina said, “I want to help! Please, mother-!”

Abruptly, Katherine stopped and whirled around to glare at her daughter, and though she stood several steps below her, she seemed far taller than Jaina in that moment. Back straight. Voice cold as the northern seas. “Your ‘help’ is not wanted. Your very presence is what brought them here in the first place!”

“Boralus isn’t safe.” Jaina tried her best to sound calm, level-headed, but she could feel the panic bubbling up in her chest like a tide.

“No,” Katherine murmured, and her gaze travelled the length of Jaina’s robes and staff with a lingering sneer of disdain. “Not for your kind, anyway. I, however, am perfectly safe. Or I would have been, had you not returned.”

Jaina pointed to the window. Far below, two hundred or more torches burned through the fog. “You really think they’ll leave you in peace? The Ashvanes seized Waycrest Manor after stirring up that mob in Drustvar! They burned Lucille at the stake!”

“What happened to the Waycrest girl is a tragedy, and to accuse the Ashvanes of inciting her murder is serious.”

“You know it’s true. And they’ll do the same here.”

Katherine rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Jaina. I am not without means, myself.”

“Nobody else is coming!” Jaina held one hand wide, gesturing towards the broad tower, the heart of the Keep, empty but for a dozen guardsmen in Proudmoore livery on the bottom floor. “I contacted High King Anduin for aid, and he sent word back that the Alliance won’t intervene by overstepping the laws of an independent state.”

“Because the proceedings were perfectly legal, regardless of what you might think. The other Houses of the ruling council voted for House Proudmoore to step down, and another to take its place.”

“Lady Ashvane-!” Jaina tried to say, but Katherine interrupted her.

“Priscilla has been nothing but a good and kind friend to me, when I had no one else. When you left. When your brothers were swallowed by the sea. When your father -” Katherine choked on the words. Clearing her throat, she placed a delicate hand at her chest, fingers grazing the cameo that pinned her ruffled shirt at her neck. When she spoke again, her voice had lowered to a veneer of forced calm. “I am tired, Jaina. I have held the position of Lord Admiral for near a decade, and our family has held it for generations before me. Perhaps it is simply time for another House to take the helm.”

Another crash at the Keep’s gates. Jaina stared at her mother, incredulous, before bursting out, “Are you-? Are you even listening to yourself? That’s exactly what the Ashvanes want you to think!”

With a shake of her head and a rueful smile, Katherine turned away, continuing down the staircase. “So many years of study, locked away in those lofty towers of Dalaran, surrounded by dusty old books, and yet you have learned so little. The world does not lie awake at night dreaming that you’ll deign to rescue it, my dear.”

Jaina watched her descend. The mob howled for blood, whipped to a frenzy with every booming crash of the battering ram against the thick, iron-banded gates. In mere moments they would break through. Some of them would die, but eventually they would overwhelm the Proudmoore Guards and storm the Keep, swept up in their furore. All for her. All because Jaina had returned from Dalaran to find her homeland collapsing into ruin -- like so many aspects of her life. She had walked away from her family so many years ago, and now she was forced to watch the last remaining member of her bloodline do the same in return.

She had but one card left to play. One last, wild attempt to right past wrongs.

“I snuck into the monastery of the Tidesages,” Jaina announced. “And I found a scroll there. It holds the instructions on how to summon the Dark Lady’s Fleet.”

Katherine froze. The line of her shoulders went rigid. Slowly, she turned back around to face her daughter. Anger, horror, and disbelief flared, painting Katherine’s pale face with ruddy blotches. She took a step up, advancing upon Jaina. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses?” she hissed, glancing down the stairwell to see if any of the guardsmen had overheard. “If they even discover you were in there-!”

Rather than pause to listen, Jaina forged on. “I can summon her. I can bind her.”

“Enough, Jaina.”

“With the Dark Lady’s Fleet we can fight back the Ashvanes and reinstate you as Lord Admiral. And then you can-!”

“I said: _enough!”_

Katherine’s voice rang out as the mob outside struck the doors once more. Her words echoed with the roar of the crowd and the faint splintering of the doors starting to at last creak into submission. Jaina tightened her grip upon her staff, frost building at its tip, magic waiting to unleash at her command. With bated breath, the two of them waited to hear the thunder of footsteps, the clamour of wrathful voices, but none came. Instead, surly murmurs and the call for another charge of the mast. What remained of the Proudmoore Guard in this section of the tower all rushed towards the gates now, preparing for the worst.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Katherine rounded on Jaina again. “I shouldn’t be shocked, and yet I am. You would plumb such depths of depravity? You would summon an undead pirate queen -- a creature of the Lich King, no less! -- to war against your own nation? This isn’t helping anyone, Jaina! All you do is confirm their every suspicion!”

Jaina rapped the butt of her staff upon the ground, sending out a web-like lacing of ice across the stone step there. “I don’t care what they think of me! I know what’s true! And I know what’s right! I will do anything it takes, if it means protecting you! I won’t turn my back on this family! Not again!”

“Is that so?” Katherine’s eyes narrowed. “Then, let’s count what we all know to be true, shall we? Let’s review why I have an angry mob trying to break into my home and burn my only living child at the stake.”

“I don’t-” Jaina stumbled over her words. “I only want to-”

Katherine began counting on her gloved fingers, ticking off a list of Jaina’s most noteworthy sins. “They believe you killed their leader, your own father, and you did! They believe you betrayed your people for the Horde, and you did! They believe you a witch, and you are! And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! Shall I go on?”

“I know what happened. What I did-” Jaina swallowed thickly. “I know I can never atone for that, but I’m not a witch! You begged father to send me to Dalaran for proper training, and that’s how I was able to control it! And now I can summon -!”

Shaking her head, Katherine kept walking down, picking up her pace. “I don’t want to hear any more of this folly.”

“Unless you do something, you will die,” Jaina said in a rush, following her mother onto the ground floor of the tower. She could feel the panic lancing through her as her mother refused to look in her direction. “It may not be today. It may not even be tomorrow. But the very moment that snake, Priscilla Ashvane, doesn’t need you, she’ll have you killed. Maybe she’ll even take you out back and shoot you herself, just to see the realisation dawn in your eyes, because that’s exactly the kind of ‘friend’ she is.”

“Where on earth has Taelia run off to?” Katherine muttered as if to herself, ignoring Jaina’s words entirely.

Another crash rocked the Keep’s doors, louder now that they stood in clear range. Jaina could see at least fifty guardsmen readying their pikes as the doors shuddered and groaned.

“It doesn’t have to be like this! Just take my hand!” Jaina pleaded, holding out her hand towards her mother, palm up. “Please! I can get us out of here!”

Still not looking at her, Katherine waved Jaina away with a vague gesture. “There’s a sally port towards the northwestern tower. I’m sure you remember where to find it; you made good use of it enough times in your childhood.”

_“I can’t lose you, too!”_

A dreadful silence followed Jaina’s admission. Her voice cracked. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. She couldn’t stand the raw, burning shame in her stomach, the barest stirrings of hope, and the near imperceptible gentling of her mother’s eyes.

Then, Katherine glanced away with a sigh. She looked as tired as Jaina felt. “It’s time for you to leave, my dear.”

Katherine walked away towards the guardsmen, towards the door, to meet whatever came for her head on. Any feeble protest or broken apology died in the back of Jaina’s throat, trapped in her mouth, half-formed. Slowly, her arm feeling leaden, she raised her hand, her fingers already tracing a teleportation spell even as the magic flushed to the surface of her skin. Her mother did not turn to see her vanish in a veil of arcane runes.

In a blink the interior of Proudmoore Keep was replaced by a misty, cobbled street. The Keep itself towered high above, its tall spires vanishing into the fog. For a moment Jaina traced its familiar parapets with her eyes, before gritting her teeth and tearing her gaze away. With purpose she strode into broad view of the Keep’s entrance. The mob was turned away from her, gathering for another assault of the battering ram.

Frost gathered around Jaina’s clenched fist. She drew her arm back as if to deliver a blow, and shot a bolt of ice from her hand. It careened over the heads of the mob, and crashed into the outer walls of the Keep. Every head jerked in her direction, baleful glares darkening when they saw exactly who it was that stood behind them.

Gathering a deep breath and gripping her staff tight, Jaina put as much steel into her voice as she could muster. “If it’s me you’re after, you’re looking in the wrong place!”

Without waiting for their reaction, she turned and ran. The soles of her boots pounded against the cobblestones as she bolted down streets and side-alleys, using every scrap of childhood memory of this city to guide her path. She could hear them giving chase, abandoning their assault of the Keep, and a brief surge of relief flooded through her.

Shouts grew closer and multiplied. Jaina didn’t have to glance over her shoulder to know they were fanning out to surround her and block any path of escape. As she ran, she reached out in front of her, tracing a lightning-quick rune with her fingers that trailed with green sparks. She muttered an incantation under her breath and pushed the spell to life.

Three ghostly apparitions, mirrors of her own image, split from Jaina’s body. They bolted down separate avenues, drawing the mob apart through this section of the city. The spell would not last long. Just long enough.

With her other hand, she dragged the tip of her staff along the ground behind her. Another breathless incantation was already spilling from her mouth. Runes pulsing with energy flared upon the ground with every step she took, blooming from her footsteps only to fade in her wake. Jaina swept her staff in a broad arc, and felt the runes push against the soles of her boots, driving her up into the air. Jaina’s lined half-cloak furled behind her like a wave as the air swelled around her, bearing her higher -- just high enough that she drifted, feather-light, onto a rooftop.

The moment her feet touched the top of the building, Jaina kept running. Her lungs burned in her chest. A downward glance told her that while the mob had fanned out after her apparitions, they were still in pursuit, illuminating the streets below with merciless torchlight. She leapt to another rooftop, pushing herself with a flicker of magic to make the jump, and doubled back to the south, sprinting for all she was worth.

The angry shouts began to fade the further she ran. Vaulting back to the ground, Jaina landed with a flicker of arcane energy. Her thighs ached from exertion, but she could not stop now. Panting, she scrambled towards one of the many dingy private docks that dotted the perimeter of Boralus. Small enough to launch a skiff, but too small for an invading force to make any use of it in the event of a siege.

One such skiff bobbed against the wooden dock. Without checking to see if anyone was watching, Jaina tossed her staff into it, untied the skiff from its post, and clambered aboard. The boat--little more than a dinghy--nodded beneath her weight, and a slop of murky harbour water sloshed inside. Grimacing, Jaina tugged the single sail free, winching it higher with a rope and a grunt of effort. She hadn’t sailed in years, but the lessons came roaring back, as natural to her as any Kul Tiran worth their salt.

As she settled herself at the helm, she placed one hand confidently on the tiller. The other hand called upon the air and the sea, magic coming to her as easily as breathing. For a brief moment, her eyes blazed with the arcane before dimming once more.

A stillness settled across the dock. Then, the sail stirred, and a concentrated gust of wind pulled the little boat to life.

Jaina did not relax until after she had cleared Boralus Harbour and the skiff was skimming along the coastline heading south east towards open water. Even then, her gloved hand grasped the tiller hard enough that she could feel a smarting in her wrist. She had to force her fingers to unclench.

The cool ocean air remained deadly still even as Jaina guided her boat further and further from land. She wiped at her brow with the back of one forearm. The mist extended well out to sea, obscuring the horizon in an ashen soup that her eyes could not pierce. Before long, the shore had paled to a dim outline, then faded from view altogether. Only then did Jaina murmur a counter-spell which caused the sail to flutter, then go motionless.

Her skiff drifted atop an unnaturally still sea. Jaina’s breath misted in a cloud from her mouth.  A chill had set in, and she shivered against it. She glanced around for any sign of other ships, but she was--as far as she could tell--alone upon these waters for the time being. Her apparitions would have long since faded back in Boralus, and it would be some time yet before the Ashvanes could figure out what had happened. She had a day, perhaps.

She could have teleported herself to safety back in the Keep, or when she had been racing along the rooftops of Boralus. She could have sent that mob to an early grave. She could have just grabbed her mother’s arm and spirited her away. She could have never returned home in the first place. She could have drowned Orgrimmar. She could have saved-

Swearing loudly, Jaina rubbed at her forehead, then dropped her head into her hands. She did nothing but steady her breathing for a few long minutes, soothed somewhat by the roll of water beneath her once more, by the comforting sounds of gentle waves lapping against the hull.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, Jaina straightened. Reaching beneath her half-cloak, she pulled out an age-yellowed vellum scroll and set it beside her. Its pocked surface bore painstakingly detailed drawings that she had already spent hours pouring over, gathering all the necessary ingredients. Jaina cleared as much of the little wooden deck as she could, pushing aside rope and the spare oars she did not need.

With a touch, she lit three candles and placed them on the deck. Dipping her fingers in a vial, Jaina linked the candles with a circle of painted ash, careful not to disturb it with the corner of her boots. She dug around in a pouch at her waist that clinked with reagents, before placing in the circle: two gold coins, an age-blackened rose, the flight-feather of a slain eagle, its tip streaked red, and the fingerbones of a man who had been tried and hung for murder.

Picking up the scroll once more, Jaina chewed at her lower lip. She hesitated. Then, steeling herself, she began to read aloud.

Her voice did not rise, but with every word it echoed, vast and deep as the abyss below her. The incantation filled her like liquid darkness filling a cavern. She could taste the black magic on the back of her tongue, singed and bitter and vile as blood upon a rusty blade. It swelled deep in her gut, buzzing at the base of her skull until the incantation threatened to choke her, pressing against the backs of her teeth, dripping from her mouth.

She finished the incantation with a sharp gasp. With trembling fingers she wiped at her chin, then leaned over the side of the boat and spat blood into the water. Jaina coughed, nearly gagging. She straightened with a grimace of distaste, looking around her for any sign that the summoning ritual had worked.

The empty mist stared back at her, silent.

Her brow knit in puzzlement. Jaina checked the scroll again, then her ingredients, counting each one. She repeated the incantation. She spat up blood again. She cursed the Tidesages with a violent series of words that would have made any sailor blush. She squared her jaw and snatched up the scroll with building fury. She repeated the incantation, over and over, until her head swam with the blighted words, until she was pale and shaky with blood loss, until her voice was a hoarse whisper and the fog had seeped into her cloak, into her very bones.

Leaning against the helm, Jaina tilted her head back and let the scroll slip from between her fingers. It dropped to the wood between her feet with a soft ruffle. She closed her eyes.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

A soft breeze curled over the edges of the skiff. The candles sputtered and died. Cursing under her breath, Jaina snapped her fingers to light the candles, but the sparks died as soon as they leapt to life. She snapped her fingers again, but stopped. She glanced up. A sound crept through the fog: a familiar creak of wood, of sails and masts.

Squinting through the gloom, Jaina held her breath and the whole world seemed to go still in anticipation. A skeletal prow loomed through the mist, its figurehead a bronze-pitted woman impaled upon the bow. Like a black-winged creature rising slowly from the deep, the colossal shadow of a ship set with dark sails emerged from the fog.

“It worked,” Jaina breathed.

Triumph rushed through her, then. Jaina could feel an exultant smile growing on her face as she looked up at the ship. Another creak drew her attention beyond the ship, and she felt the smile slip.

More followed the flagship. Many more. Their shadows were faint outlines, growing thick and fast the closer they drew. Jaina soon lost count, and triumph gave way to a slowly dawning fear that walked its icy fingers down the length of her spine. For there upon the flagship, a figure shrouded in mist and darkness stood at the bow, staring down at her with eyes like red embers that burned through the night.

"Summoner," Sylvanas Windrunner's voice was echoed by the spectral howl of the dead, "for what reason do you wish to bind my fleet?"


	2. Chapter 2

Something about the woman standing before her was familiar.

Sylvanas took in a golden tangle of hair pressed through with white, braided into asynchronous harmony, and bright blue eyes laid low by exhaustion. Copper stained the bottom of the summoner's mouth, lips full but bloody with sacrifice. She was beautiful in a way that set Sylvanas' teeth on edge, still in the glory of her prime despite life's inevitable weathering. Magic crackled blue and jagged at her fingertips, and that was when all of the pieces fell together.

"Jaina Proudmoore." Glowing red eyes narrowed to sharp slits. "What could a mage of the Alliance want with a fleet full of Forsaken?"

No answer came, at first. Jaina seemed far too occupied with staring at her, and taking in the band of purple-sailed ships that stretched across the darkening horizon. She snapped out of it with a visceral shake of her head, shoulders brought back and straight.

"The Alliance abandoned my family under the pretense of a political squabble." It came out through clenched teeth, and Sylvanas wondered exactly how far Jaina had fled in order to cast this ritual, how she even acquired it at all. "We're beset by the Ashvanes, and they'll likely slaughter all of us before anyone with the power to stop it cares to notice."

"So you called me here to deal with them?" Sylvanas tilted her head, almost amused. "Did you read that scroll in full, Proudmoore? I am no mercenary. My services are not paid for with gold, no matter who the coin belongs to."

Anger flashed through Jaina's gaze, edged with defiance. "Of course I read it! Only a fool gives blood without caution."

She took a step forward, looming over Jaina with one foot balanced on the bowsprit. "Then you are that eager to give your soul to me forever? The moment our bargain is fulfilled, it is mine to claim for eternity."

Sylvanas had to give the mage some small amount of credit. Hesitation only showed on her face for all of a second. "Unless there is something else you want more."

A frown tightened Sylvanas' mouth. What more was there but eternity? Arthas stripped all else from her, even the ability to set foot in her own homeland ever again. She was cursed to be unmoored, condemned to never honor any flag but her own, save for the Lich King's if he rose again.

"Nothing you can offer me, mage," Sylvanas replied.

Jaina squinted at her, with a caster's insistent curiosity. "That isn't a no."

She could have argued the point, whetted her wit against the human's stubbornness, but such games were a waste of time, even for those with an infinite supply. "How about this, then? You can fulfill either option. Either your soul or my utmost desire."

"And I still get what I want in return?" Jaina asked.

If the mage was trying not to look eager, she had failed. Sylvanas knew so many would-be heroes who thought they could bend the shape of fate, that the impossible would fall within their reach if they simply cared enough. They were all dead now, or worse, like herself.

"What is it exactly that you want in return, mm?" Sylvanas caught slivers of conversation in the distance, her crew gossiping amongst themselves, but didn't raise her voice to stop it. They were right to be doubtful, considering the circumstances. "If you want dead Ashvanes, I've already sent a runner's worth down to the bottom of the sea."

"Where?" Jaina took a step forward, nearly on the edge of her tiny skiff. "What were they doing anywhere near you?"

"Running," Sylvanas said simply. "With a belly full of gold that now belongs to me. Not to mention restoring a bit of my crew."

"I need your fleet to restore my family, my house." She drew in a deep breath, then met Sylvanas' eyes with a shield of pride across her face. "I don't care about the politics. This isn't about who leads, it's that they'll kill us all. They'll corrupt Kul Tiras from the top down, and everyone will suffer for it."

Wood creaked under Sylvanas' boots as she walked the bowsprit, then stepped off into open air. The banshee inside her rebelled against gravity, allowing a slow drift down into Jaina's skiff. The mage jerked back, and the dinghy wobbled in protest.

"Tell me you want them dead, Proudmoore," Sylvanas demanded, another step pushing Jaina even closer to the transom. "'Restore' is such a pretty word, a guiltless word. Yet people bleed for it. They rot on battlefields all around Azeroth because of it. You want the Ashvanes to be corpses, so your family can walk up their backs to the top again."

Jaina flinched, and Sylvanas watched her swallow hard, pulse a steady beat in her throat. So alive, so vulnerable. "If they surrender, I don't want them dead. I'm not seeking a slaughter."

"And if they don't _surrender_?" Sylvanas asked, cutting her teeth on the last word.

She expected a plea, seeking mercy or restraint, but Jaina's eyes darkened, unyielding as the heart of the ocean. "Then they die. The Ashvanes certainly have no qualms about killing me or anyone I care about."

A cold smile tugged at the edge of Sylvanas' mouth. "Not so naive, then."

"Who said I was naive?" Jaina lifted her chin, holding her gaze. "I'm not oblivious, Admiral, I just don't murder whoever gets in my way."

"It's not murder if you're at war. It's just strategy." She laughed softly, the sound vibrating through withered lungs. "Make your final offer, mage."

Jaina frowned. "You haven't told me what else you want. The other option."

Ah, yes. Sylvanas supposed it was only fair, no matter how impossible. If Jaina thought it would save her soul, that was her problem. "I am bound to the Lich King, even with his power held at bay. His call can enslave me whenever it chooses to."

"You want that bond broken," Jaina answered breathlessly.

"It is not a task I would trust to a desperate mage on the edge of exile, but you are certainly welcome to attempt it." She always needed entertainment during the dull days of scouting and preparation. "But you only have until the Ashvanes fall, Proudmoore. The moment that happens, your soul is mine if I am remained cursed."

"Done." The mage's confidence would have been inspiring, if not for the hubris behind it. "And call me Jaina. I'm not my mother."

Even with nightfall creeping up her back, Sylvanas reached out to cup Jaina's chin. The other woman shuddered at the press of cool flesh, stiffened even more when Sylvanas' thumb swept across the stain of blood drying there. Her heart quivered at the contact, and the dark magic of the summons snapped around them both in a cage of dark chains.

Jaina spit out a curse at the effect, but it was nothing compared to the dawning look of shock when the last ray of sunlight fell from the sky. Sylvanas' skin faded to deadened gray, eyes sunken to crimson pits. Every Forsaken watching them suffered the same fate, bones and rot protruding from torn clothes and ancient injuries. The scar that marred her body beneath layers of armor blazed with pain anew, but Sylvanas didn't wince. It always ached in some respect, and the nightly flare was more nuisance than agony.

"What did you think eternity looked like, Jaina?" Sylvanas whispered, withdrawing her hand. She loathed touching anyone when she looked like this, even to make a point. "This is your future, so learn to welcome it now."

"Not if I break your curse." The retort was heated, a reflex. "And you don't scare me, Sylvanas. I'm pointing you at my enemy."

"So you are." Turning on her heel, Sylvanas reached up to grab the bowsprit, then slung herself onto it with practiced grace. "Welcome aboard."

Nathanos threw down a ladder of rope for the mage to climb, and Sylvanas sent a few Forsaken scrambling to handle the skiff with a gesture. It had no use as part of the fleet, but if the Ashvanes were as dead-set on destroying the Proudmoores as Jaina claimed, then they would be looking for any sign of her presence. One advantage Sylvanas never liked to surrender was that of an ambush; it turned tight battles into shattering conquests.

And thanks to yesterday's skirmish, there were no living Ashvanes to report the presence of her fleet, much less that she had been summoned at all.

"I have a lot to tell you about their movements so far," Jaina began, back in earshot.

"Not now," Sylvanas countered, raising a brow. "First, we fall out of sight, before some trade ship or Kul Tiras fisherman reports us to the authorities."

When Jaina opened her mouth again, Sylvanas bared her teeth to interrupt. "My authority on this ship, and every other in my fleet, is _absolute_. Do you understand me?"

A clever remark was bitten back, if the twitch of muscle along Jaina's jaw was any indication. Instead, she closed her mouth, then nodded.

"Good." Sylvanas withheld a sigh; humans were hopelessly rebellious. Putting that aside for now, she drew on all the strength and volume in her voice, pulling on the bond she shared with every Forsaken. "All hands! Retreat!"

\--

Though no wind stirred the sails, the fleet moved at the Dark Lady’s command. Standing at the quarterdeck and squinting against the fog, Jaina counted ships. The largest of them were hulking black shapes that creaked through the mist, eight in total, and each trailed along their own cohort of cutters, sloops, and gun-brigs.

Pulling out a small leather-bound book that she had hooked from her belt, Jaina flipped past the various sketches and notes and spells she had catalogued, and turned to a fresh page. With a snap of her fingers, she summoned an enchanted quill that needed no ink to write. Then, glancing up every now and then, she began to jot down records of the fleet itself -- how many gun ports she could see, how many crew members that would require -- trying to get an estimation of the size of the fleet itself.

Jaina scrawled down calculations down the side of the page. She put a question mark after the words ‘6,000 souls.’

Not as large as she would have liked. The Ashvanes surely would have mustered more ships and more men overall. Though, tapping the end of her stylus against the dot of her question mark, Jaina supposed there was a lower staff turnover, for lack of a better term.

Rubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand, Jaina blinked away her exhaustion. She tried to gauge how late it was in the evening, but it was impossible to tell without clear visibility. She craned her neck to peer up at the sky, but even the crows nest was somewhat obscured through the fog.

With a sigh, she vanished the stylus in a whisper of smoke and clipped the little book back onto her belt, where it hung with a familiar weight, its pages enchanted to repel any exposure to the elements. When she turned, Jaina nearly ran into a Forsaken crew member, carrying a coil of rope looped over one shoulder. His dull yellowish eyes glared at her, sharp and glowing with distrust, yet he said nothing as he continued walking. He limped with every step, and Jaina could see a jagged bit of thigh bone jutting through skin and cloth.

She hid a faint grimace of disgust. Weaving through various crew members, Jaina crossed the quarterdeck. Her footsteps slowed when she saw a figure ascending the steps that led to the stern and the captain’s cabin below. A barrel-chested man stepped above deck. Twin axes were fastened with loops of cracked leather at his belt, and his eyes fixed upon her as if he could sense her presence.

Jaina nodded in his direction. “Blightcaller, correct? You are the Admiral’s second in command?”

He grunted in confirmation, but said nothing else.

“Right. Then you should be able to answer my questions.” Pointing across the sea behind them, where the rest of the fleet followed in the flagship’s wake, Jaina asked, “By my count it would take roughly six thousand people to man a fleet of this size. Or do you tend to run lean?”

For a moment he said nothing. Then, Nathanos rasped in a deep, surprisingly cultured tone, “We have exactly as many souls as we require. No more. No less.”

Jaina could feel a twinge behind her eyes, the exhaustion of the day beginning to finally take its toll. She pushed it aside. “I only ask because I need to know what we’re up against and how we’ll fare in this conflict.”

“If my Lady wants you to know any additional information, then she will tell you herself,” he sneered. Then, offering her a mocking half bow, he said, “If you’ll excuse me. Some of us have duties to attend to.”

She scowled after him. In his absence, Jaina was at a loss for what to do. Any time she tried to approach a Forsaken crew member, she was rebuffed with stony silence. The whole ship seemed to operate in a haze of eerie quiet, never seeming to require vocal communication for basic tasks, until the only thing Jaina could hear was the muted thud of footsteps, the creak of wood, and the rustle of sails. She had never felt so out of place. Here, the living stood out like an oddity, like flotsam drifting in a sea of the dead, or like a single lantern on an otherwise dark and empty street.

Eventually, the ache had spread to her temples, and Jaina retreated below deck in search of some sort of cot or hammock she could collapse upon until morning. She hadn’t gotten very far when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Sylvanas stood, straight-backed, her eyes glaring crimson from beneath the shadow of her hood. She bore no weapon now, though she still had a quiver full of arrows slung across her back, the fletching peeking over one shoulder.

Perhaps it was the bloodloss, or perhaps her fight with her mother, or perhaps the narrow escape from an angry mob earlier that afternoon, but Jaina could not find the strength to be startled by Sylvanas’ unexpected appearance. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Jaina said, “I realise nobody else in this fleet needs sleep, but I have had a very long day, and if I don’t find a place to lie down soon, I will fall asleep atop the anchor.”

In answer, Sylvanas gestured for Jaina to follow her.

Jaina walked at Sylvanas’ side. “Your crew aren’t very talkative.”

One of Sylvanas’ shoulders lifted in an inscrutable shrug. “Give it time. When you officially become a member of my fleet, I’m sure they’ll open up to you.”

Jaina glowered, but made no reply. Her stomach gave an unpleasant twinge. She would have to summon herself some food. In the morning. When she didn’t feel half dead already.

Sylvanas stopped and opened the door to her own personal cabin, which stretched the entire breadth of the stern just below deck. She motioned for Jaina to enter.

Staring, Jaina said slowly, “You cannot be serious.”

“Do I look like the joking sort?” Sylvanas held the door open a little wider. “I cannot have you wandering the fleet, unsupervised. During your stay here, I must insist you remain where either myself or Nathanos can keep an eye on you. And seeing as Nathanos is busy directing the crew, and I have work here, you will just have to make do.”

Again, Sylvanas gestured for Jaina to enter, like a master urging her unruly pet inside the house. Jaina grit her teeth, but stepped inside. Sylvanas shadowed her movements, closing the door behind them and sealing them in the cabin, alone.

No great cabin could afford the space to sprawl, but the _Wail’s_ certainly tried. The space was lit with low candlelight. Arched and slanted windows spread all along the back wall, looking out to the sea. The command table stretched before the windows, strewn with papers and scrolls, inkwells and spare quills. Behind it there stood a high-backed chair lined in dark velvet and gilded like a throne. On one side of the room, a smaller workstation was cluttered with books, charts, and half-written letters. And on the other side of the room a four-poster bed was draped in purple silks, storage trunks at its base.

Jaina did not want to know how they had managed to squeeze an actual four-poster bed in here, nor did she particularly care. At this point, it was all she could do to refrain from shucking her boots and falling onto the bed, fully clothed. As it was, she moved further into the room, slowing her steps as she approached the command table. Jaina cocked her head to read the charts, the curling edges of paper weighted down with small slabs of cold iron.

If Sylvanas cared that Jaina was studying the command table, she did not show it. Instead, she walked to the private workstation, and began shuffling through paperwork. Without looking over her shoulder, she said, “Go. Sleep. We will keep a low profile and sail towards Drustvar through the night.”

“Drustvar?” Jaina asked.

“Unless you’d like me to stage an assault on Boralus without a proper supply of munitions?”

Brow furrowing, Jaina snapped, “Raiding Kul Tiras for plunder was not a part of the deal.”

The line of Sylvanas’ shoulders stiffened, and all of the candles in the room sputtered momentarily on their wicks. A not so gentle reminder of Sylvanas’ earlier rebuke.

Jaina knuckled one of her temples with a sigh. “Fine.”

She crossed to the bed and sat upon its edge, reaching down to tug off her boots. Sylvanas’ back remained turned while Jaina pulled her cloak over her head and unbuttoned her coat. Unceremoniously, Jaina peeled off her damp clothing and tossed it into a corner until she was down to her smallclothes. When she pulled the white shirt over her head, she caught the scent of burnt sulphur and when she looked up, Sylvanas was standing right before her.

Wordlessly, Sylvanas held out a nightgown of dark silk. Jaina took it slowly. Sylvanas’ eyes swept over her body, but Jaina refused to quail beneath that unblinking stare, meeting her glare for glare. The fine silk rippled like black water in Jaina’s hands, and she pulled it on. Doing her best to ignore Sylvanas’ presence completely, she yanked back the sheets and slipped into bed.

When Sylvanas did not move, Jaina raised her eyebrows and quipped. “Are you here to check under the bed for monsters?”

The ghost of a smile touched Sylvanas' lips. Night had truly fallen now. In the low candlelight, every flicker of movement revealed the sunkenness of her eyes, the ghoulish tint of her skin with the pallour of a corpse. Suddenly Jaina was very grateful that Sylvanas covered nearly every inch of herself with clothing, from the long hems of her tattered greatcoat to her talon-tipped leather gloves and tightly-bound cravat.

Jaina had to resist the urge to shrink back when Sylvanas sat down on the edge of the musty feather mattress. It sank beneath her weight.

“In these waters, monsters don’t hide beneath the bed,” Sylvanas murmured. Her smile revealed long sharp teeth, her skin stretching thin over hollow cheekbones. “Sweet dreams.”

Jaina did not realise she had clenched her hands around fistfuls of the sheets until Sylvanas rose and crossed back to her desk. She forced her hands to relax, but continued to eye Sylvanas warily. The admiral sat at her desk, back turned to Jaina, and proceeded to work as though she were alone in her cabin. With an irritated huff, Jaina settled down in the bed and closed her eyes.

\--

Despite the exhaustion that dragged at her bones, sleep did not come easily, and when it did it brought with it old dreams, old nightmares.

The breadth of Arthas’ pauldrons as he looked down over Stratholme. The way his hand clenched around his weapon. It was too early for Frostmourne, but there the weapon was, bleeding with necromantic energy, icy tendrils that whispered dark secrets all along the blade.

Unlike in life, Jaina reached out to stop him in her dream. She grabbed his arm and tried to haul him away from the massacre to come. When he turned to face her however, it was not Arthas. It was Daelin.

Her father’s eyes were blank silver coins. His face had withered away with rot, revealing a skeletal smile. A familiar pendant hung from his neck, but when Jaina glanced down it wasn’t her family’s anchor necklace at all. Instead, the centrepiece had been replaced by a jagged shard of metal twisted around his throat like a noose.

Behind him, Theramore burned, seared away by a pulse of pure mana that bleached the world a scorching white. With shaking fingers, Jaina touched the pendant at her father’s neck. It flared against her fingers, a burn so cold it cauterised the skin.

Her father snatched her wrist in an iron grip, but when she flinched from him, it wasn’t Daelin at all. Sylvanas’ hand crushed her wrist like a manacle binding her in place. No matter how hard Jaina struggled to wrench free from that icy grasp, the Banshee Queen held her fast. She pulled Jaina close, her red eyes the only source of light in an encroaching blackness. Night swarmed around them, clogging the air, forcing its way into Jaina’s lungs until she choked down the taste of saltwater.

As they sank together beneath the wine-dark waves, Sylvanas leaned in, her words a whisper against Jaina’s cheek. “Welcome home.”

\--


	3. Chapter 3

Something was giving Jaina Proudmoore nightmares.

Sylvanas didn't know what, but she also didn't care to ask. She found her own unending existence exhausting enough, and as they sailed towards Drustvar, the sounds of the other woman tossing and turning in bed had become familiar background noise. Jaina hadn't volunteered a reason for her discontent, either.

The dark coast of Carver's Harbor was scarcely lit, but Sylvanas had no need for the sun, much less to pick out the tethered ships bobbing on the distant docks. Her fleet moved with a huntress' grace, swift and silent as they divided the harbor from the rest of the sea, cutting off any avenue of escape through the water. Sailors and citizens were welcome to flee farther onto the isle, of course, but they couldn't carry the supplies in every hold with them.

"When do you wish to strike, Admiral?" Nathanos asked, his gaze aligned with hers towards the harbor. "Or are we to play the net as they sail out by dawn?"

The latter would keep the Forsaken almost untouched, outnumbering any wayward Waycrest ship with incredible odds, but it was also a slow, lumbering plan. If their theft was noticed right away, there would be enough time and distance for a proper defense to be mounted.

"How many ships do you think we could cut loose without them noticing, Nathanos?" She divined a number herself, counting how many scouts were available. One of the few conveniences of death was lacking a need to breathe. "Because I think we could sever a good lot, set the docks ablaze, and collect our bounty while they scramble to save their harbor."

He grunted in acknowledgement. "There will probably be sleeping crew aboard to take care of."

"Good." Sylvanas turned away from the harbor, restlessness working a sluggish pulse through her veins. It was an echo of adrenaline, more memory than chemical. "We need more bodies. Hopefully, some of them will feel like getting back up again."

"I'll tell our scouts to sharpen their blades." Nathanos bowed shortly at the waist, and disappeared below deck with nearly silent footsteps.

With luck, there would be enough munitions in the Waycrest holds to cut the Ashvanes down to size. She knew of a few other vulnerable ports, but the longer they took to shore up supplies, the longer news of her presence would have to spread. Sylvanas wasn't keen on leaving survivors behind, but it was inevitable when enough witnesses became involved. 

A breath behind her made Sylvanas stiffen. It wasn't a sound she was used to anymore, much less on her own flagship. "Jaina."

"I thought I would wake up to you scribbling at your desk again." The human sounded worn thin, flayed to the bone with fatigue. "But your chair was empty."

"It almost sounds like you missed me." Composure recovered, Sylvanas turned on her heel to face the other woman. "But I suppose the raid would have woken you up anyway."

Jaina's mouth tightened into a thin line. Sylvanas knew she disapproved, but within the lines of their contract, it was irrelevant. The mage had bartered for the restoration of her family, not the protection of everyone in Kul Tiras.

"There's no other way, I suppose," Jaina finally said, disdain dripping from each and every word.

"Not unless the Proudmoores have a secret, fleet-sized stash of weapons waiting nearby that you haven't bothered to inform me of," Sylvanas replied, absent effect.

Now her face was a blade, all sharp and tight edges. "No. Unfortunately not."

"Then what bothers you so much about this?" With a gesture to the harbor, Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. At the edge of her senses, she heard Forsaken dropping into the water, ready to swim deep and out of sight towards their quarry. "The Waycrests certainly didn't raise their banners to save your family from being driven underfoot."

"That doesn't mean they deserve..." Jaina sighed, stopping herself. 

"That they deserve  _ me _ ?" A huff of amusement left Sylvanas' lips. "I'm stealing their supplies, Jaina, not gutting their children in front of them."

For a moment, Jaina held her tongue, eyes locked on the distant harbor. From this far away, with human eyes, it was more a constellation of torchlight than a place where people lived and breathed. Sylvanas wondered if that made it easier for her to bear.

"I'm just tired of seeing innocent people caught in the way of other's conflicts, battered back and forth because they had the ill luck to be born with a farm or a frigate that happened to be amidst someone else's warpath." Jaina shook her head, fingers pinching her brow to alleviate the band of tension there. "Aren't you?"

A bark of laughter escaped Sylvanas' throat before she could stop herself. "Do you remember how I died, Jaina Proudmoore?"

Frustration wrote volumes on Jaina's face before the question sunk in. It continued to sink, like a corpse strapped to a stone. "I...that isn't what I meant."

"No, you meant other people, not the banshee you bound with blood magic in the middle of the ocean." Sylvanas shrugged. "But I think you hoped I would have sympathy for them, didn't you?"

It was a heavily baited question, but Jaina answered nonetheless. "Most of the stories about you paint a picture of a heartless monster. You're what every sailors fears on nights lost in fog, waiting to claim them body and soul."

"That's not a yes or a no," Sylvanas replied.

"I wanted to say yes, but I remembered how the world sees you." Jaina's eyes stayed resolutely on Carver's Harbor, avoiding the line of Sylvanas' gaze. "How you were turned away by your own people, despite dying in their name. You're cursed, but they curse you more for refusing to stay dead, because now you're a stain on elven history instead of a martyr."

The tip of Sylvanas' ears twitched. "Thank you for describing my eternal suffering in such a concise manner. I'll have to remember that phrasing."

Jaina groaned, pressing both hands over her face. "I won't win with you, will I? This is just a contract, and you don't care as long as it's honored."

"Isn't that what you care about too, in the end?" Sylvanas looked back at the harbor, counting tiny shapes emerge from black water. "Unraveling my history doesn't get you anything that you want, after all."

"It does if I break your curse," Jaina insisted.

Humans were so stubborn. Sylvanas had no idea how to deal with them unless they died and stood back up again. "Yes, yes. What was I thinking?"

She watched as the first boat began to drift from the docks, pushed away by pair after pair of rotten hands beneath the tide. It was joined by another and another, and Sylvanas saw the first sparks of confusion and chaos spread across the harbor as the night watchman on duty turned this way and that, betrayed by his torch.

Summoning the strength of the banshee's tongue, she called out to the rest of her fleet. "Our prey is helpless! Take them!"

In a blink, an explosion rocked Carver's Harbor as a scout's charge blew one of the wooden docks to splinters. Shouts rang out as the sails of her ships snapped to life, carrying them swiftly towards the vessels that were cut loose. Whatever skeleton crews slept on board struggled to get to the upper decks, and Sylvanas drew her bow, nocking an arrow to keep a bead on them. If any reached their captain's wheel, she would make the fools regret it.

Her flagship was a blade in the dark, passing over the water with haste. The small, fragile figures became humans with faces filled with panic. Sylvanas shot one climbing to the crow's nest by reflex, and his falling body transformed their fear into outright horror. 

"I can't watch this," Jaina muttered beside her, and the mage made to storm off.

"Stay in my quarters as long as you like," Sylvanas replied, compensating for a gust of wind as she loosed another arrow. It sank deep into a desperate sailor's chest. "Perhaps you could do a bit of scrying and see what the Ashvanes are up to? I would hate to be caught off-guard when we're in an actual battle."

The curse Jaina spat back at her was simultaneously so complex and colorful that Sylvanas almost missed her third shot.

If there was more stubborn than a human, it was most certainly a human with magic.

\--

Jaina did not slam the door to the admiral’s cabin shut, but she did close the door with more force than perhaps was strictly necessary. The smack of wood and dark iron sent a thrill of mingled emotions aching through her chest. Satisfaction at the outburst. Annoyance with herself for being so childish, for letting Sylvanas get under her skin so easily. And there, the shadow of guilt, a memory of her childhood, of being scolded by her mother for slamming doors that sent an echo through the Keep. 

Storming into the center of the room, Jaina stopped at the heavy clawed-foot table near the stern windows. She glared down at the instruments and charts and maps, written in a jumbled mix of High Thalassian and Gutterspeak, most of which she understood but some of which evaded her. All of it however, told her nothing she did not already know. 

Sylvanas was not hiding her plans. She was leaving them lying around in plain sight. Like a child thumbing her nose at a rival. Or perhaps like an adult leaving biscuits within reach, knowing that the child could not withstand the temptation of sneaking a bite. 

After a few furious minutes of pawing through the various charts, searching for any new scrap of information and finding none, Jaina threw the rolls of parchment back down upon the table. She did not bother placing them back nicely, or arranging them so that it seemed she had not intruded. Sylvanas would know what had happened. Somehow, she would know. 

Jaina ground her teeth together until her jaw gave a twinge. Turning, she glanced around the room, looking for anything else that might reveal some hidden piece of information. She stalked over to the tall bookshelves, their rows bound in brass bars to keep the tomes in place. Rummaging through each of the rows revealed nothing. Even taking out a few books and rifling through their pages only made Jaina’s frustration grow. She tossed one of the books over her shoulder, hearing it land on the rug behind her with a satisfying thump. At this point she found herself beyond caring for appearances at all. She could claim the room’s contents were disturbed during whatever pointless skirmish they were heading towards. 

A low noise escaped her when she finished scouring the bookshelves, only to turn up empty handed. Jaina scowled at the cabin at large until her gaze alighted upon Sylvanas’ smaller private writing desk. She approached with intent, hands reaching out, but found herself hesitating to actually touch anything upon it. 

While the rest of the room seemed sterile -- it could have been any higher officer’s quarters at first glance -- the writing desk was strewn with traces of Sylvanas everywhere. They were small touches. A quill fashioned from a raven’s wing, sleekly black and faintly iridescent. A tattered piece of dark greenish cloth threaded with gold and encased in a jar of glass. A tarnished gold buckle clearly elven in design that looked like it had once been attached to something. A pair of goblets made of delicate cut crystal, gritty with dust. A book of what appeared to be dry elven history, a detailed lineage of princely houses, revealed a flower pressed between its heavy pages when Jaina opened it with faltering fingers -- a single fragrant tulip, its petals aging and near colourless now. 

Jaina immediately shut the book, and that oddly guilty sensation came rushing back, as if she had been caught peeking through a gap in the curtains to watch an intimate scene unfold. The letters Sylvanas had been writing were partially finished. Some had been imprinted with wax seals. Others were folded shut, patiently waiting for their mistress to return and finish what she had started. 

Reaching out, Jaina tugged at the handle of the main centerpiece compartment, but the lid would not budge. She searched the desk for a key. Finding none, she briefly entertained the wild debate between unlocking it by magical means, or tearing it open through brute force. 

Eventually, Jaina sank down into the chair Sylvanas occupied most nights. The chair did not creak beneath her weight, its elegant frame far more sturdy than she had given it credit for. Planting her elbows atop the desk, not caring if she wrinkled some of the letters, Jaina let her head sink down into her hands. She groaned, the sound muffled by her palms.

Bound in an unbreakable deal for her immortal soul, and she couldn’t even hold a conversation with the Banshee Queen long enough to pry out the plan of attack before her temper snapped. Not for the first time since climbing aboard  _ The Wail,  _ Jaina doubted her own sanity. 

Tides, she was tired. More than ever, more than when she had been alone in Dalaran for that first year at the age of fourteen, more than when she had watched her father bleed out in her arms, more than when she had first revisited the ruins of Theramore after its destruction, Jaina wanted to go home. 

With a sigh, she straightened. Her fingers began to weave a teleportation spell, the tips of her gloves leaving streaks of arcane energy that shimmered in the air. It was a foolish whim, visiting home. She hated the very thought of doing Sylvanas’ bidding, even by proxy. Not to mention, Katherine would turn her away -- definitely sneer and deride her, possibly reveal her location to the Ashvanes and their dogs -- but at least her mother would be a familiar face. A living face. Even if only for a few stolen moments. Even if she could not get any information out of it. She could tell her mother of her success summoning the Dark Lady’s Fleet at least. It would horrify Katherine, but it would be something. 

Jaina finished weaving the spell, and waited for the flush and tumble of teleportation to seize her. 

She kept waiting. 

With a frown, Jaina wove the spell again. And again. All to the same effect. The spell fizzled out at her fingertips the moment it was complete. She cast a probing spell around the cabin to unveil any wards that might be tethering her in place, but there was nothing. She was free to leave whensoever she wished. Sylvanas knew better than anyone that no matter how far Jaina tried to run, she would eventually have to return. The bonds of their contract stated as much. 

Reaching forward, Jaina snatched up one of the crystal goblets from the table and brought it closer. She cleaned it with a murmur and a wave of her hand, then filled it to the brim with water summoned with a snap of her fingers. Jaina cupped the bowl of the goblet between both hands and closed her eyes. A murmured spell fell from her lips like a dull chant, echoing deep in her chest. When she opened her eyes, the water was ablaze with pale light that seemed to pour over the edges of the goblet, dripping down her wrists only to curl and fade like smoke.

She looked down into the scrying water and saw the exterior of Proudmoore Keep. It was raining. Nothing new there. She passed through stone, through barriers physical and magical alike that protected the Keep from outward harm with the ease of someone who had grown up outmaneuvering such things since she was but a child. Pushing further along, she felt an unfamiliar tug against the spell, like a net catching the edge of a fin. With a whisper, Jaina slipped through, unseen, and delved into the heart of the Keep itself. 

Her mother sat in her favourite study. Her admiralty greatcoat was draped over the back of the couch, and she sipped at a porcelain cup with her legs crossed. Jaina breathed a sigh of relief, only to go tense as the door to the study opened. In strode two Tidesages, their hoods drawn and casting deep shadows across their faces, so that only their pale mouths and the muddied gleam of their eyes were visible. Jaina went very still, hardly daring to breathe lest she draw attention to the incorporeal presence of herself that spied on the room.

The door shut behind them, but Katherine did not look over when she spoke, “I suppose you’ve finished erecting the bars of your cage, then?”

One of the Tidesages bowed his head, his hands clasped beneath the wide sleeves of his robes. “It is for your own protection, Lord Admiral.”

“Is it? How good of you,” Katherine drawled, taking another sip. The light of the flames wavered on the reflection of her teacup, and Jaina realised her hands were trembling ever so slightly, though her voice remained steadfast. “And imprisoning my late husband’s cousins and nephews and nieces is also for their own protection? Or for Lady Ashvane’s?”

“That is a matter for the courts to decide, Lord Admiral. It is not our business,” the other Tidesage answered, just as respectfully as her partner. 

“Remind me -- which House presides over the courts again?”

They did not answer. They watched her in silence. 

Katherine set her teacup down on its saucer and reached for the nearby pot. “Of course. How silly of me. It’s Lady Ashvane’s nephew.”

“The courts are lawfully warranted to investigate a threat brought to Kul Tiras by your daughter, Lord Admiral,” a Tidesage replied. “We are all sympathetic, but it is nobody’s fault that the rest of your great House is tearing itself to pieces.”

“Hence your Lord’s most generous offer to keep me  _ ‘safe’ _ in my own home. Thank you, yes. I am well aware of the lies and propaganda flitting about the streets.”

“Lord Stormsong--” One of the Tidesages started to say, only for Katherine to cut him off.

“Lord Stormsong is a spineless trout, who wants power but wouldn’t know what to do with it if it buggered him on the street. Now, could you please be useful for once and bring me another pot of tea?” Katherine waggled the teapot at them before setting it down on the table before her. “This one is empty.”

Jaina could just make out the narrow slits of the Tidesages’ eyes, the dangerous glower with which they watched Katherine, and she made an abortive movement, her mouth opening as if to shout a warning to her mother. At that, both of the Tidesages’ heads snapped in her direction. 

Looking puzzled, Katherine followed their gazes and stared right through Jaina. “What is it?”

Rather than answer, one of the Tidesages snapped to her partner, “Strengthen the wards. Anchor her in place. Don’t let her escape.”

“Let who--?”

The Tidesages lifted their arms, and Jaina could sense the rush of the sea in their grasp. She wrenched back from the scrying spell so quickly that she threw herself into the seat with a gasp and nearly toppled over backwards. The crystal goblet steamed in her hands; all the water evaporated. 

Breathing heavily, Jaina stared at the goblet. Then, she placed it on the table and stood so abruptly the chair scraped back against the floorboards, snagging on the edge of a rug. Still catching her breath, Jaina started towards the door, staggering when the hull rocked to the thunder of cannon fire. She regained her footing and scrambled topside. She had to dodge through the mass of undead crewmembers milling about, every deck crowded with bodies regardless of how many had gone landside. 

Emerging into open air once more, Jaina ducked when another round of cannon fire roared out across the water. A scouting sloop had happened upon them in the harbour, and was making its retreat, while the Dark Lady’s Fleet gave chase. From this distance, Jaina could just make out Ashvane colours through the darkness, though the crew members aboard the enemy ship were scrambling to put out any lanterns topside as fast as they could.

Sylvanas stood with Nathanos on the quarterdeck, speaking with that same infuriating calm she always possessed. Jaina stormed up to her and snapped, “We need to hurry.”

Sylvanas finished relaying her orders to Nathanos, who nodded and departed, before she even deigned to acknowledge Jaina’s presence. She gave Jaina a brief once over. “Back so soon? I thought you didn’t want to bloody your hands? Ironic though that statement is, in and of itself.”

Jaina bristled at the implications of that, but refused to rise to the bait. “The Ashvanes already have House Stormsong in their camp. They have my mother under house arrest. We have to expect any Ashvane ship will also have at least one or two Tidesages aboard.”

“Wonderful,” Sylvanas sighed. She pushed past Jaina and began walking to the other side of the quarterdeck to watch the Ashvane sloop attempt its hurried retreat. “Don’t you have any good news? I thought you were supposed to be an optimist.”

“Don’t you have actions instead of words?” Jaina fired back, trailing after her. Whereas the Forsaken crew members moved out of their Queen’s way, they did not extend that same courtesy to Jaina, and she had to step around them, lengthening her step to keep up with Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas pulled an extendable telescope from an inner pocket of her greatcoat, and flicked it open. “That’s funny. I was going to ask you the same thing.” 

Scowling at her, Jaina bit back a sharp retort. Sylvanas peered down the telescope at the Ashvane sloop, gauging its distance. It was well out of shooting distance now, all of the cannonballs Sylvanas’ ships had shot towards it having splashed short into the sea.

“You won’t catch up to it at this rate,” Jaina pointed out. “It’ll disappear in the darkness and take news back of our position to the Kul Tiran fleet.”

“I am well aware,” Sylvanas murmured, lowering the telescope and tucking it away once more.

Jaina spied three lanterns illuminating the sloop, dwindling with every passing second. Now, only two. Turning to Sylvanas, she held out her hand. “You want action? Let’s give them hell.”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. She glanced down at Jaina’s proffered hand not with a sneer, but with vague disinterest, as though Jaina had offered her a particularly dull gift. Just when Jaina opened her mouth to urge her to make a damn decision already, Sylvanas gripped her fingers tight. Before Jaina could raise her other hand to start weaving the teleportation spell however, Sylvanas tugged her closer, close enough that Jaina could see the pinpricks of vivid light in her crimson gaze. 

It was so strongly reminiscent of the nightmares which plagued Jaina by night -- not every night but often enough that she could feel every hour of the day drag at her bones -- that Jaina nearly flinched back from the sudden contact. Whereas in the dreams Sylvanas’ expression bordered on tender, now her face could have been hewn from stone. 

“Don’t sink it, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas growled. “I want that ship intact.”

Jaina’s lip curled. “So,  _ now _ you find it in yourself to show mercy?”

Sylvanas shot her a look as though she had lost all sense. “A ship like that is worth more money whole than blasted to pieces.”

For a moment Jaina stared at her, anger pulsing with every heartbeat, buzzing at her fingertips until she could hardly stand it, until she had to clench her hand into a fist. She could feel the gristle of Sylvanas’ fingers between her own, but if Sylvanas felt it she gave no indication. “ _ Tides!  _ You are so -! So -!” 

Sylvanas waited for whatever insult Jaina could muster with a bored expression on her face. Another lantern flickered out on the enemy ship. “If you’re going to stoop to name calling, might I suggest you do it before the sloop escapes? I’d rather not let our position be compromised.”

“Oh,  _ fuck you!”  _

An aura of ice encompassed Jaina from head to toe, eyes blazing blue before she sent a volley of rigid bolts towards the sloop. Everywhere they struck, the frozen surface spread, grasping at the hull of the ship. It swayed and slowed, but the force of the tide fought back against the ice, seeking to shatter it.

Not on her watch.

Jaina willed an answering wave to crash on the other side of the Ashvanes, shoving the ship back towards Sylvanas' fleet. Her eyes narrowed as a Tidesage emerged from the far deck, robes rippling as a magical zephyr whipped to life between his hands. 

"That mage can topple a vessel with one spell, can't he?" Sylvanas asked.

Irritated or not, Jaina was glad the admiral immediately identified the threat. "Yes, and knock every ship you have into each other. We'll be battered to splinters."

Crimson eyes sharpened to slits. "Can you counter him?"

"Yes, but I can't stop the Ashvanes at the same time. I only have two hands." One of which was still locked tightly with Sylvanas'.

"Then I'll take care of the Tidesage." A chill passed through the other woman's fingers, far more vicious than any ice. "Control that ship, do you understand me?"

Biting her tongue on a retort, Jaina nodded. "What are you doing?"

"Nathanos, you have command!" Sylvanas shouted, and her hand slipped through Jaina's.

Not away, but  _ through _ .

In a cloud of black, consuming energy, Sylvanas shot across the open water. She was monster and menace all at once, hitting the side of the Ashvane hull and latching on with dark, writhing tentacles. The banshee moved with inhuman speed, lunging for the Tidesage as he finished his spell.

A wall of wind rose between the ship and the Dark Lady's fleet, and Jaina spit a curse as the sea split, threatening to drop an absolute deluge on top of the  _ Wail _ . Perhaps the Forsaken would survive being drowned half a mile deep, but she wouldn't, and the loss of Sylvanas' flagship would be an unambiguous victory for the Ashvanes.

She had to trust that Sylvanas would kill the Tidesage; protecting the fleet was her responsibility in the meantime. Nathanos shouted over the howling wind, trying to get the  _ Wail's _ sails under control, but Jaina's patience wore to its finest threads and snapped.

Her hands surged up and outwards, taking hold of the ocean like a recalcitrant apprentice. Endless primal force shoved back, trying to swallow Jaina whole, but her blood was saltwater and her body knew the rhythm of each wave like a heartbeat. She tasted iron, and clenched both hands into fists.

The storm about to crash onto the  _ Wail _ trembled and collapsed. Water rushed back down with a deafening splash, jostling every Forsaken ship, but they steadied as the sea took shape once more, and the Ashvane sloop came back into view.

Jaina's jaw dropped. Bodies littered the deck, many twitching with the last throes of death. Sylvanas was more shade than flesh, claiming the life of the captain as she sliced through him and emerged on the other side of his corpse. The glow in the admiral's eyes faded, and she stood alone on the ship, victory curving Sylvanas' lips with a vicious smile.

As silence fell across the ocean, Jaina's heart beat like thunder.


	4. Chapter 4

Even from the deck of another ship, across falling waves and under a gray-lit sky, Sylvanas saw Jaina with utmost clarity.

Power flowed from the mage from head to toe, wisps of blue light dancing around her body as the _Wail_ settled in the water, the rest of the fleet drifting towards their flagship like a magnet. Sylvanas had observed the Tidesage's spell at point blank, and his magic was crude fumbling compared to Jaina's simple mastery, a bully amidst a general. She was the very essence of the sea, possessed by the swell and rhythm that comprised an eternal and unyielding force of nature.

It was beautiful.

The thought settled in Sylvanas' body, piercing deep as a blade and twisting low. She grit her teeth, the edges of her banshee shape almost flickering to life again. It was not jealousy, exactly, but the ache left behind was similar, to see Jaina triumphant, wielding strength that her family refused to comprehend.

Sylvanas knew that well enough. Far, far too well.

Shaking off the diversion in thought, she went to the captain's wheel and began bringing the Ashvane vessel towards the _Wail_ , slow and steady. Nathanos stood at the bowsprit watching her, and Sylvanas saw his mouth open to bark orders to the rest of the crew, even if the words were lost to the tumult of the sea.

When the distance closed between both ships, hook-laden ropes were thrown from the _Wail_ to catch the Ashvane railings, binding them together. Sylvanas jumped across to her own deck, and Forsaken sailors rushed past her, ready to pick the hold clean of supplies. Those that only served the living would be sold, and the rest divided to meet the fleet's needs. Yet, there was one more matter to attend to.

She waited on the prow, watching the water with careful eyes. Nathanos approached from her right, but he would not expect to be looked at in such a moment. "A fine capture, Admiral."

"Without their pet Tidesage, there was little threat." Now they had the Carver's Harbor ships as well, securing enough wealth to be flush, nearly gorging. Sylvanas knew to take care to trim the fat when opportunity was given; they moved best sleek and sure, in a formation that could survive narrow channels or worse, but such full victory was still pleasant. "After the waters calmed, at least."

"You did keep up your end of the bargain there," Jaina chimed in.

The last remnants of magic disappeared from her skin, leaving only slices of blue behind; the accents of her clothes and her eyes, which carried lightning in them just seconds before. Now they were more akin to a clear, midday sky.

"Did you truly think I'd let them escape?" Sylvanas huffed, but her amusement was distant with her attention still on the water.

"Well, not every plan goes--" Jaina began.

"There's one," she called, speaking to Nathanos and not the mage. 

A hand twitched above the water, having come from far too deep to belong to the living anymore. Sylvanas swung herself over the railing, gripping it tight and low so she could reach to offer her own, clutching at grasping fingers. 

The first rising was always the worst.

She pulled hard, dragging the sailor up out of the water. A raspy, salt-worn gasp escaped him, the last bit of life in his lungs screaming that he was drowning, trying to cling to an existence that welcomed him no more.

Perhaps he had been an Ashvane a minute ago. Now he was Forsaken, and that demanded a particular choice.

While he coughed out a gallon of water at her feet, Sylvanas watched the surface for more. There was no true way to know how many would cling to their second reckoning; at times, it was a solitary soul, the last of their crew; in others, nearly every one who fell refused to drown.

She spied another sailor clinging to a piece of driftwood, panic leaving her eyes dull.

"Jaina," Sylvanas put the weight of an order into the other woman's name, "get her up here, will you?"

"You want me to..." Jaina squinted at the ragged tangle of cloth and limbs, then snapped to alertness when the adrift sailor twitched. "She's alive!"

Her mouth pulled into a tight line. "Not entirely."

Still, Jaina levitated the wanderer out of the sea, depositing her on deck with a gentle coil of magic. The sailor fell to her knees, arms wrapped around herself as she trembled and sobbed, still in shock. From a cursory look, Sylvanas noted no signs of injury--no snapped limbs or crumpled ribs, skin intact--so she must have simply drowned. The bloating in her cheeks would fade in a few hours.

Dropping to one knee, Sylvanas met a hazy, almost wild gaze and threw her voice down to a whisper. "Hush now. You don't need to breathe anymore."

A shaky exhale was the answer, the last of the tears the woman's eyes would ever make spilling down her face. "It hurts. My lungs, my whole body!"

She could offer little comfort in that regard. For some Forsaken, the sensation in their flesh died entirely; for others, a remnant of their death always remained, sticking like a curse to the soul. "I know. Can you tell me your name?"

Her mouth opened, but after a few choked attempts, the sailor shook her head. Such was not uncommon either, not in the early hours. Sylvanas let out a hum of sympathy, placing her hand against the cold curve of the human's jaw. It could be difficult to read such mortal age, but she guessed under thirty.

"You do not need one until it comes to you, mm? You're mine now." For all that the words could seem possessive or cruel to some, Sylvanas had come to learn the opposite; after death, everyone was far more desperate to belong, to anchor themselves to the world in a way that would never let them be taken again. "You're Forsaken."

Recognition flickered in the woman's eyes like sunlight on a rippling wave. "You're the...the Banshee Queen. I'm really dead."

Sylvanas nodded; then, she lied. "It is not as dire as you fear. You'll always have the sea, and you'll always have this fleet."

There was only so much gentleness she could spare. Her people did not look down upon such mercy, for it had saved each and every one of them before, but more bodies were rising from the deep, and the old crew would have to welcome the new.

"Nathanos," she called back to him, "see her outfitted in some dry clothes. Then send her to the Black Rose."

He grunted in acknowledgement, offering a broad hand to help the sailor to her feet. She jerked and twitched a bit, body expending the adrenaline of its last horrified moments, but followed along without complaint.

"How dare you?" The first corpse Sylvanas dragged aboard had found his voice, although it was split raw from vomiting salt and splinters. "Monster!"

This one had died angry, rage the last imprint on his mind. If he still remembered being a Waycrest man, that would make the transition that much more difficult. Sylvanas stood to her full height, then turned on her heel to face her broken accuser.

Ah, she had killed this one herself. A phantom echo of banshee claws cut through the man's shirt, and underneath the flesh was necrotic, blackened to the bone. "You need not stay, sailor. Throw yourself overboard and drop to the bottom of the sea."

He blinked, clearly unsure whether to take the comment as threat or jest. "And why would I do that?"

"I hear if you fall far enough, the thread that binds you to me will break." Sylvanas tilted her head. "Either that, or I suppose those who have tried were crushed by the pressure and unable to climb back up. I have not heard from them again either way."

In the face of suffering, of true death, his outrage died like a flame in the wind. He gulped, then looked at all the other ships around him, the eternal legion that now claimed everything that he was and could be, body and soul.

"Why?" One hand clutched at his ribs, laying over the outline of her claws. "I didn't want to die."

"That is exactly why you are here," Sylvanas countered. "If you want to take your oaths to the grave, you can. Your brethren are down there now, rotting in the deep."

Loyalty was a strange thing. So many made claim to it, but few could hold onto their promises when the alternative was to die. It was all the more difficult when one looked upon their creator, and while Sylvanas knew she was no goddess, to the Forsaken, she may as well have been.

Such was the same reason she had been unable to refuse the Lich King, after all. Death was a shattering, and so little could survive the aftermath.

Like his fellow moments before, the Waycrest sailor began to cry. He curled into a crumpled ball at Sylvanas' feet, clutching at her boots like they were the only thing keeping him afloat. In any other context, she would have kicked him aside, but this was a singular sort of mourning. If it was not spent from his body now, the grief would haunt him forever.

"Let me stay," he choked out, "please let me stay."

Sylvanas touched his shoulder, and although he trembled, the soldier let go of his ribs to cover her cool fingers with his own. They had a touch of warmth left, but that would not remain for long. "Serve well, and you will always have a place here. Death cannot take you again while I still stand."

He nodded, fumbling his way back to both feet. Another Forsaken gave him a gentle push further down the deck, towards where Sylvanas' quartermaster was tugging stolen clothes out of chests to fit new crew. The same would happen to the Tidesage's vessel, for sailing around in colors the Ashvanes would know risked them piecing together the plot that was about to unfold, which simply wouldn't do.

When she turned back around to look for Nathanos, Sylvanas met Jaina's eyes instead. The mage stared at her with something like wonder, but snapped out of the daze when she realized she was being watched. 

"Are you so shocked by the dead walking around?" Sylvanas asked, bemused. "Surely you are used to it by now."

"That isn't what shocked me." A frown pulled at Jaina's mouth. "You were nice to them, that's all. Far kinder than I expected."

Somehow she doubted that was the whole of it. "I need them loyal, and there are none more loyal than those at the end of their rope when a hand offers them salvation."

"Right, so you're just being calculating." The frown deepened, Jaina's teeth biting into the edge of her lip. "There's no heart in there at all."

At the latter, Sylvanas laughed. "Now I'm not sure if you're trying to convince me or yourself."

That is where the matter should have laid to rest, but a whim seized Sylvanas' heart, and she stepped forward, casting a shadow over Jaina as the distance between their bodies collapsed. The mage tensed, but didn't retreat.

"Is there something troubling you, Jaina?" Sylvanas whispered, ensuring not even her crew's sensitive ears could hear. "Are you hoping when you die and rise again, that I will be gentle then too?"

The flush of pink across Jaina's face, such a pure rush of mortal blood, made Sylvanas equal parts jealous and damnably intrigued. "You won't be half as smug once I sever the bond on your soul. In fact, I might even expect a thank you."

Sylvanas' amusement took on a bitter cast, like fruit sprouting rot. "If you free me from the Lich King, I might even give you one."

She took a step back as another ragged gasp from the water caught her attention. Two of her Forsaken were trying to help the man up onto deck, but the first lacked an arm and the other had brutally twisted legs, making it a difficult balance to keep.

"Let me get him," Sylvanas intervened, "and the rest of you, back to your duties!"

Distantly, she was surprised that only three had risen. Whatever the crew on this vessel had died for, their faith in it seemed absolute.

\---

Ships were self-contradictory. They were at once hulking things that commanded the waves, and enormously small upon the broad-silvered ocean. They were alternatively stiflingly hot in the ‘tween decks, and freezing cold topside, exposed to the elements. They were quiet absent the bustle of the cities and towns, or they were clamoring with creaks and groans and the distant roll of thunder making its approach across the horizon. 

Even the smallest of ships had enough nooks and crannies that a person could lose themselves in for a meagre hour. Just a moment of peace and warmth -- that was all Jaina wanted -- but the Dark Lady’s Fleet offered none.

 _The Wail_ was cold all of the time. Normally the warmth would flow from huddled bodies stacked atop one another in hammocks that swung from wooden beams. The Forsaken crew however, had neither need nor want of sleep, and the warmth of their blood had long since faded away. She was not followed at all times by some sort of honour guard or jailer, as she had initially been expecting, but neither was she ever truly alone. 

Always she could be found by the watchful eyes of a Forsaken middy or bosun, fixed, unblinking, and holding a faint yellowish glow. Nathanos made a show of being too busy to keep an eye on her himself, though Jaina had little doubt to whom the crewmembers were directly reporting her whereabouts, for the very instant she thought she had found -- at last -- a quiet corner of the ship to curl up in and sleep without being watched, a Forsaken crewmember would happen upon her. Neither he nor Sylvanas would ever deign to come looking for her themselves, but one way or another she would be found. 

A week after the raid on Drustvar, a week of fitful sleep and the same series of nightmares that wrenched her awake in the witching hour, and Jaina had just about had enough. Sweeping her cloak over her head and buckling it against one shoulder, Jaina drew up the hood. In full sight of the crew at the quarterdeck, she opened a portal and stepped through, vanishing in an instant.

Nobody tried to stop her. There was not even the hint of alarm before the portal winked shut behind her. She had no real destination in mind, only the desperate hope of some peace and quiet, and apparently that meant a secluded vale between the borders of Tiragarde Sound and Stormsong Valley. It wasn’t much, but it was isolated, and so reminiscent of home her heart ached in her chest.

A snap of her fingers, and there was a simple shelter and warm fire crackling beneath the stars. Jaina wrapped her cloak around herself, the fur draped across her shoulders ruffling in a slight breeze. Quickly, the warmth of the fire seeped into her, and she dozed peacefully for the first time in near a week.

With sleep however, came the nightmares. Even on shore, far away from Sylvanas, it seemed she could not escape them. 

Upon jerking awake, the magically produced fire was still merrily dancing upon its makeshift hearth. Jaina lingered as long as she could before, with a deep sigh, she stood and brushed off her hands. The little camp vanished. She bit back a groan as she cut a portal in the air. Only reluctantly did she step through and back onto the _The Wail._

The sight of the Admiral’s great cabin greeted her like a cold slap to the face. Or perhaps that was the chill of death that lingered about every nook and cranny of this wretched ship. Jaina couldn’t tell. Regardless, she tugged her cloak more tightly around herself with a veiled shiver. 

“Feeling better?” Sylvanas’ voice said behind her in a silky drawl.   

Jaina refused to let herself be startled, though it took an enormous effort not to jump half out of her skin. Turning, she glared. “Not really.”

Sylvanas sat, shrouded in partial shadow behind the heavy ornate desk framed by the great stern windows. As the ship rocked, the early morning sunlight streamed, weak and watery, through the green-tinted glass windows. It cast Sylvanas in an eerie glow, as if she were submerged in water, her eyes burning through the depths. 

Jaina waited for some sort of admonishment, and was puzzled when it never came. “Have I kept you waiting?” she prompted, crossing the cabin and sinking down into one of the chairs across the table from Sylvanas. A cloud of dust sullied her actions, and she had to wave at the air to keep from coughing. 

If anything Sylvanas seemed amused. She cocked her head. “You’re a grown woman, Lady Proudmoore. I was not aware you required a curfew. Though if you’d like one, you’ll find I am very accommodating.” 

Jaina’s face screwed up in confusion. “Why?”

“I have a giving nature,” Sylvanas drawled.

“No, not - not _that._ Why don’t you care that I just up and left the fleet? Aren’t you worried about where I might have gone?”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. “Should I be?” 

Taken aback, it took Jaina a moment to answer. “No.” 

“Well, then.” 

Jaina stared at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a very poor jailer?”

The corner of Sylvanas’ mouth quirked in a lopsided smile, revealing the barest glint of fang. “The ties that bind people to me go beyond mere flesh and blood. Your presence on the Fleet is monitored, but where else you go in life does not concern me; that’s your business. In the end you’re mine.” 

A chill raced down Jaina’s spine. She broke eye contact to pinch the bridge of her nose and will away a headache. She had thought the nightmares would stop if she got far enough away from the Banshee Queen, but either Jaina did not go far enough, or the nightmares did not stem from Sylvanas at all. 

Either which way, she was running on four hours of sleep, no hope of coffee, and unfettered irritation. 

“What’s our next step?” Jaina asked, not bothering to keep the burr of annoyance from her voice. 

“I was hoping we’d get right to business.” Sylvanas stood and pulled a map of Tiragarde Sound from the many papers strewn across the planning table. She marked a few places with sharp little flourishes of an ink-black quill. “My scouts last reported the location of a number of Ashvane Foundries here, here, and here.”

Lowering her hand, Jaina leaned her elbow on the table as she studied the map. “Yes, that’s correct. And?”

Sylvanas tapped the quill at the southernmost location. “My first instinct is to raid this one. It’s furthest from Boralus, which means we’re less likely to encounter any ships of the line, and even if we do, we have a quick escape back west -”

“Wait - _what?”_

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow. “Surely I don’t need to explain to the Lord Admiral’s daughter how ship manoeuvres work?”

“That’s not what I-!” Jaina snapped, cutting herself off and jabbing a finger at the foundry in question. “What do you mean you want to go raiding? _Again?_ These are my people you’re talking about.”

A sneer pulled at Sylvanas’ mouth. “Last I looked, _‘your people’_ wanted to hang you in front of a baying mob.”

Jaina opened her mouth to fire back a snide refutation, but the words died on her tongue. 

“Do you want to win?” Sylvanas continued. “Because if so, then we are going to need enough munitions to trade blows with one of the largest navies on Azeroth. Or had you forgotten that little detail while you were traipsing about the woods somewhere?” 

Jaina glowered. She was clenching her teeth so hard, her jaw ached. The ache behind her eyes gave another nasty throb. Finally, Jaina sighed and pointed to the most westward foundry location. “This one.”

At that, Sylvanas wrinkled her nose. “The water is too vulnerable to the tides this far up the inlet. It won’t be deep enough throughout the day for anything larger than a fifth-rate.” 

“Are you trying to raid the place, or turn it into a crater?” Jaina sat back in her seat with a dismissive wave. “Because of its location, it’s the least well-guarded of the lot. They won’t be expecting an attack. Send a few brig-sloops with enough men to storm the foundry and barge the goods back out to the main fleet.” 

Much to Jaina’s surprise, Sylvanas did not waste time with quibbling or needling. She simply nodded and reached behind her to tug on a rope that hung from the low-slung ceiling. Immediately, two Forsaken entered the cabin. In a Kul Tiran setting they could have snapped to a sharp salute in the presence of so superior an officer. Here, however, Sylvanas just waved them forward, and they approached without any ceremony. 

A few words in their guttural tongue were exchanged, during which Sylvanas gestured towards the map and scrawled a few calculations on a spare bit of parchment. The Forsaken both nodded, took their orders in absolute silence, and left. 

Sylvanas kept writing, scratching down quick numbers, pulling out various ledgers and making notes. She did not look up at Jaina as she murmured, “You should try to rest. You look half dead already.” 

Jaina scowled at her. “Thanks.”

A wordless hum was her only answer. 

\--

Almost out of spite, Jaina did not even attempt to sleep. Instead, she sat at Sylvanas’ personal desk to read one of the many books on the shelves -- making good use of Sylvanas’ things without her permission, though Sylvanas made no comment on the matter -- and the two spent the next few hours pointedly pretending the other did not exist. 

Despite her best efforts, Jaina jerked awake in her chair when the ship lurched beneath her. A blanket slid from her lap and down around her ankles. A puzzled and sleep-hazed glance around showed her that the book she had been reading had been placed atop the desk. Her page had not been marked. Sylvanas was nowhere to be seen. 

Pushing herself upright, Jaina folded the blanket over the high back of the chair before heading towards the exit. She grabbed her staff from where it leaned in a dark corner. The crystal pulsed blue beneath her hand. As Jaina pulled the door shut behind her, she tugged the hood of her cloak over her head and made her way above-deck. 

Forsaken crewmembers worked, as tireless as ever. Jaina ignored them as much as they ignored her, which was to say: wholly yet without any efficacy. Land was in sight over the starboard beam. Early morning mist trailed from the tops of trees.

She had expected it to be late afternoon, perhaps even evening. She must have slept far longer than she had originally thought. 

Rubbing at her eyes with one hand, Jaina strode towards the quarterdeck. The boards of the steps were slick with saltwater beneath the soles of her boots. On the quarterdeck, Sylvanas was talking to Nathanos. Tucked beneath one of her arms was a spyglass made of a bronze so old it appeared grey and had begun to tarnish with verdigris. 

When Jaina approached, Nathanos stiffened and made his retreat. He did not fail to cast a disdainful look in her direction as they passed one another. 

Jaina on the other hand rolled her eyes and came to a stop beside Sylvanas. “Your second-in-command really is a charmer.”

“I always thought so.” Sylvanas pulled out the spyglass and raised it to one eye. 

She aimed it over the starboard quarter, towards the mouth of the inlet that carved its way between Drustvar and Tiragarde Sound. 

“Anything interesting happen while I was out?” Jaina asked.

In answer, Sylvanas wordlessly handed the spyglass over to her. Jaina took it, and peered down its lens into the distance. The spyglass may have been an old instrument, but its more essential components had been kept in pristine condition. The shoreline leapt into view, and she could easily make out the shape of three skeletal ships making their way down the inlet and towards the sea under full press of sail. The lead ship’s dark prow cut through the mist like an age-blackened spear.

As it did so, Jaina paused. She lowered the spyglass and handed it back to Sylvanas. “They’re hoisting signals.” 

With a frown, Sylvanas snatched the spyglass from Jaina’s hand and barked for the nearest midshipman on signaling duty. An undead with half her jaw missing came rushing over with the large signal book in her arms. In rapid Gutterspeak, she translated the flags being raised by their sloops. No sooner had she finished, than Sylvanas snapped the spyglass shut.

“All hands to posts!” Sylvanas shouted, and her voice carried across the quarterdeck. “Enemy in pursuit! Signal, _Wail_ to Fleet: Prepare for engagement!”

The decks were suddenly a-swarm with activity. The middy was busy overseeing the raising of flags to the rest of the Fleet, and Sylvanas rounded on Jaina, her eyes like coals. 

“I thought you said this foundry would be the least defended!” Sylvanas hissed.

“It was!” 

“Then what do you call that?” Sylvanas jabbed her finger towards the inlet. 

Squinting, Jaina tried to see how many ships pursued the sloops. Sylvanas had already stormed off, delivering more orders in lieu of waiting for an answer. As the ships drifted closer, Jaina gripped her staff tight; her knuckles went white and bloodless. Her eyes widened.

Jaina darted after Sylvanas, who was still stalking the quarterdeck. She grabbed Sylvanas’ shoulder, and the Banshee Queen whirled around so quickly that Jaina jerked her hand back as if afraid it would be cut off for daring to touch Sylvanas without her permission. 

 _“What?”_ Sylvanas whispered, her voice dangerously low. 

Jaina pointed. “Look.”

“I’ve already seen what-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake -- _Look!”_

Their own sloops were well within plain sight now. Sylvanas did not bother pulling out her glass again. Two of the sloops were firing their chase guns, small gouts of smoke belching from their sterns towards their opponents. They aimed at the rigging, hoping to gain whatever speed they could as an advantage to better flee. Even as Sylvanas and Jaina watched however, not a single shot landed. As if each round had missed. Or as if each round passed completely through the enemy without a trace. 

The opponent’s ships trailed in a single orderly line down the inlet after their quarry. From this angle it was impossible to tell how many they numbered, but through the morning mist could be seen the faint ghostly blue of their sails, nearly translucent in the dawn’s golden light. 

“Those-” Sylvanas said slowly, as if she could hardly believe what she was saying herself, “-are not mine.”  

“What do we do now?” Jaina breathed.  

“The only thing we can right now: we run.” 

\--  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

This time, Jaina did not bother with subterfuge; she simply strode into the great cabin and unlocked the personal writing desk with a snap of her fingers and a spark of magic. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Jaina did not pause, or even look up from where she was rifling through Sylvanas’ desk, despite the fact that she could feel those eyes burning a hole into her spine. “Looking for clues as to how a piece of your power escaped without you knowing it.” She held up a necklace with a blue stone and asked, “What is this?”

Sylvanas crossed the cabin so quickly, she trailed smoke that smelled of sulphur and an open grave. She snatched the necklace from Jaina’s hands and hissed, “A family heirloom. Don’t touch it. In fact -” her face darkened, and her eyes burned dangerously, “- don’t touch anything.” 

“It’s resonant.” Jaina held out her hand in a silent demand for Sylvanas to give it back. “Which means it could be used for scrying. I might be able to shed some light on the situation.”

The necklace disappeared into one of Sylvanas’ pockets. “No.”

Slamming one of the drawers shut, Jaina turned. “Part of this deal specifically allowed for me to find a way to break this curse. How am I supposed to do that when you refuse to let me look into the matter?”

Sylvanas walked towards the stern windows with a shrug. “You’re clever, aren’t you? Find another way.”

“What  _ ‘other way?’  _ There are only two powers that I know of that are capable of raising the undead to that extent:” Jaina counted them off on her fingers, “Yours, and the Lich King’s. And arguably, those are the same thing.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sylvanas said, and her voice carried the bite of winter.

Jaina quickly amended that phrase, for Sylvanas was looking at her with fury brewing in her coal-red eyes. “You are a remnant of the Lich King. Your powers stem from his, whether you like it or not. That’s just a fact. And if those ships we saw aren’t your doing, then-”

Understanding flared across Sylvanas’ face, bright as flint-strike. The corner of her cold mouth curled into a sneer. “If Bolvar Fordragon isn’t doing his job, then that is a far greater concern than a petty little Kul Tiran uprising.”

Jaina ignored the jab. Instead, she pressed, “It needn’t be a new fleet. Do you know if there was anyone else like you?”

“There is no one else like me.” 

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, and I’ve answered exactly as you meant.” Sylvanas gave a dismissive wave of one gloved hand. “The Lich King had his many armies, but he needed only one Fleet.”

“But-!”

“The Lich King is dead,” Sylvanas snapped. “I was there.”

“No,” Jaina said,  _ “Arthas _ is dead. The Lich King is contained by Bolvar Fordragon in the Frozen Throne.” 

“And, what? You think the spirit of the Menethil Prince escaped somehow, and is now running amok, raising undead fleets upon a whim?”

Despite herself, Jaina could feel the frustration bubbling up in her chest. She clenched her hands into fists at her side. “What you’re describing is impossible. His soul was the first of many stolen by the runeblade, Frostmourne. Even when the blade was destroyed, the souls remained trapped in Icecrown Citadel, locked in eternal torment.”

At that, Sylvanas smiled grimly. “Good.”

Jaina blinked.  _ “Good?”  _ she repeated.

That smile turned into a fierce baring of sharp teeth. “Yes.  _ Good.  _ It’s what he deserves.”

“Nobody deserves that fate, Sylvanas. Not even Arthas. Not even you.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you still harboured some lingering affection for the Menthil Prince.” Sylvanas eyes narrowed. “But you and I both know that would be mad.”

Jaina’s mouth went dry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” With slow, measured steps, Sylvanas rounded the table, walking towards her. She did not blink, her gaze fixed and hypnotic. “You were engaged to be married. Those sorts of chains don’t vanish overnight.”

“Trust you to think of love as chains,” Jaina countered. “Yes, I loved him once. Long ago. And yes, I wish I could have saved him. Every day, I wish I could have stopped him at Stratholme, but I -”

Jaina stopped. At her words, Sylvanas’ eyes had widened, and she had jerked to a halt a few steps away. 

“What did you say?” Sylvanas whispered. 

“I-” Jaina began, but Sylvanas did not give her the opportunity to answer.

“You were there. You were at The Purging.” 

Something in Sylvanas’ voice made Jaina take a step back. It was utterly inflectionless. She had gone rigid and cold. Her eyes seemed to be looking past Jaina rather than at her, piercing right through her into some phantom image beyond. 

Jaina’s tongue darted out to anxiously wet her lower lip. Suddenly she wished she were holding her staff and clutching it tight. She opened her mouth, and the confession spilled out in a croak, “I was, but I couldn’t watch him do it. I couldn’t stop him. So, I left.”

The coldness drained from Sylvanas’ expression, replaced by an ugly rage that lit up her eyes to a dangerous glow. 

Before she could stop herself, Jaina murmured, “I’m sorry.”

It was, perhaps, the worst thing she could have said. 

\--

How could she have let herself be bound to Jaina Proudmoore?

The question consumed Sylvanas like a blaze, eating past flesh down to the bone, down to marrow. If she had any soul left to speak of, that burned too, like she should have burned at Quel'Thalas. Yet that was not to be, because of Arthas, because of Frostmourne's blade, claiming everything she was and twisting it to undead monstrosity. 

A scream built in her throat, the same heart-rending howl that split her lungs the moment the banshee inside her took hold. It hurt to hold the sound between her teeth, trapped in the rigid line of her jaw like a living thing. Yet she was not living, and could never be again. The Lich King's chains still held her, ready to pull like a leash were he to ever rise once more.

Which could not be so. It simply could not be, which Jaina herself had voiced. Except there was no other explanation for a legion of ghostly ships, even if their allegiance to the Ashvanes was another layer of mystery. What could possibly draw those two forces together?

Sylvanas' fangs pricked the bridge of her tongue. She supposed the same question could be asked of her and Jaina. True, the contract of blood could be sealed to anyone whose bargain she accepted, but that Jaina in particular had sought her out, the same woman who knew her tormentor before his desperation claimed everything.

In a way, her own anger was an irritation. Why should she care about some human mage's misspent youth? Jaina would be another face among the Forsaken soon enough, her magic over the sea surrendered to the whim of her ruler. Sylvanas' heart gave a vestigial twitch, strong enough to send a ripple of pain through the rest of her body.

She closed her eyes and thought of ice, of a chill that encompassed everything, the same way frost could freeze a wave in place when it pierce deep enough. To be cold, to be numb and still, was the only way to stop herself from doing something reckless.

Then Jaina spoke.

"Sylvanas."

There was a particular emphasis to the way the other woman uttered her name. It could not be blamed on accent or how human tongues often battered elven syllables; no, there was an element of  _ knowing _ , of intimacy presumed. So few people used her given name absent title to begin with--even Nathanos would never do so unless they were in private, and only if he was concerned past limits of propriety--that it almost felt like Jaina was taking liberties.

After this revelation about Arthas, Sylvanas was outraged by the notion of any liberty at all. If she was chained to the Lich King, then Jaina would be dragged down with her into the deep, closing the loop of damnation between them.

No matter Jaina's assertion, there was no hope of anything else. Freedom was a temptation that had cost her too much already.

_ "Sylvanas. _ "

She bared her teeth, lunging forward and stopping just shy of Jaina's face. "What? What could you possibly have to say to me now?"

With a mere inch of space between them, Sylvanas heard Jaina swallow hard. It stuck in her throat, the cords of muscle there tight with tension. "I don't-!"

"Is that why you dared to make such a promise to me as our contract was made?" Sylvanas hissed. "Did you feel guilty? Were you going to lead me along, make yourself out to my savior, for something you could have  _ prevented _ \--"

"No!" Jaina interrupted, the word snapping out like a lash. "No, I...it sounds worse to admit that I was being selfish, but that's the truth. I wasn't trying to manipulate you, Sylvanas. I just knew you were the only one who would help me, who even could. Arthas was the last thing on my mind when I cast that ritual."

Perhaps that was true. More than likely it was, for Jaina had many infuriating strengths, but dissembling did not rank chief among them. Yet the fire scorching Sylvanas' mind refused to be extinguished; it merely flickered, then resurged in strength.

"I am the only one who can help you," Sylvanas whispered, low and sharp. "And I will have you for eternity in the aftermath. You deserve no less, after what you have done."

All defiance slipped away from Jaina's face, replaced with a rictus of pain, as if an old wound had just rebelled against its scar. "We have a deal. No matter how much you loathe me, I will free you, and thus free myself."

Loathing was not the word. Sylvanas stung with the knowledge shared, yes, but for some reason she could not bring herself to transform it into hate. The necklace burned in her breast pocket, pressed against the space where her heart had once beat in her chest. Jaina would have been young as she was young, unaware of the tragedy about to snap its jaws shut around Azeroth. Yet her rage wanted somewhere to go, and there were no vessels for it that could survive such a reckoning.

"You madden me," she uttered under her breath, taking a step back.

The distance was better. She did not have to look Jaina in the eyes that way, to wonder what could have been. 

Jaina opened her mouth to speak again, but Sylvanas left the cabin with as much haste as she could summon without giving the illusion of retreat. There were still too many battles ahead--the Ashvanes and their spectral allies--to be wasting time sniping in her quarters.

Until this war was won, she would give Jaina a wide berth. It was the only sensible thing to do.

\--

These days, Jaina took to portalling onto land to sleep. She could only manage a scant few hours before the nightmares seized her. Dark spectres of her father and mother, of hands dragging her into the bottomless deep as she thrashed herself awake. She would wrench half upright. Her clothes would be sticking her her skin with cold sweat, while her heart hammered in her chest. 

And always without fail, when she returned to the fleet, nobody would comment on her absence. Indeed, nobody would speak to her at all. 

If the Forsaken were tight-lipped before, it was nothing compared to the icy silence with which they treated her now. Jaina had not expected this to be an easy feat -- unraveling the powers of the Lich King was not a task for the faint of heart -- but she had expected just a smidge of enthusiasm about the idea of being freed from those chains forever. No magic could escape death’s grasp, not truly, but she could at least allow them some certainty. 

It seemed however, that Sylvanas’ cold ire burned, swift, through the entire crew. She had hoped to get some of the newer crew members talking, but even their newfound loyalties were unable to be swayed. In fact, recent memories of sharing Kul Tiran bonds only seemed to deepen their dislike of her; the Lady Jaina Proudmoore had been the Ashvane’s enemy in life, and they held no love for her House in reserve. 

Meanwhile, Sylvanas had the uncanny ability to know where Jaina was at all times aboard the fleet, and to be anywhere Jaina was not. Jaina did not know what she found more frustrating: the fact that she was being avoided, or the fact that she was desperate to not be avoided. 

Finally, Jaina approached the only person aboard the fleet who did not actively shy from her presence as though she bore the Plague. “I need your advice on something.”

Nathanos was scratching the tip of a quill against one of the maps strewn across the great cabin’s planning table. His head was dark and sleek and bowed. He did not look up from his work, nor did he give any indication that he had heard her at all. His gloved hand wielded the quill with careful precision as he worked on the chart with unerring care. 

Jaina chewed on her lower lip as she watched him work. Her arms were crossed, and her fingers drummed a nervous pattern against the crook of her opposite elbow. “I said-”

“I heard you,” Nathanos murmured, though he continued to work without looking at her.

The rush of relief at being addressed directly after over a week of wintry silence should not have been so heady. Jaina took an emboldened step closer to the table. “If nobody will even talk to me, I can’t do anything to break this curse.”

“‘Nobody’?” Nathanos repeated. “Or ‘somebody’?”

“You know what I mean.”

He picked up a pair of calipers with a graduated bow, and measured the distance between two points on the map. Then he jotted down the numbers into his calculations. “I daresay I do know what you mean, but that does not mean my advice comes freely.”

“I’m trying to help!” Jaina snapped. 

“Oh, why thank you, Lady Proudmoore,” Nathanos drawled. “Shall I grovel for you? Kiss your hands and weep for the noble sacrifice you are making on our behalf?” 

Stung, Jaina scowled. “That’s not what I-”

He cut her off with a dark chuckle. “But it is.” Tossing down the calipers, he straightened and -- at last -- looked at her. “Have you tried apologising for whatever it is you two fought over?” 

“Apologizing is what landed me in this situation to begin with.”

He snorted. “And here I thought you’d only ever live up to your namesake.”

Jaina’s hands curled into fists. She felt the crackle of energy rising to the surface of her skin, bidden by impotent anger, and had to tamp it down. When she spoke, her words were strained through grit teeth. “I’m not the one who put Stratholme to the sword. I didn’t force Arthas to become the Lich King.”

For a long moment, Nathanos simply studied her. His gaze was made all the more unsettling by the fact that he did not need to blink. “In my experience, guilt is a paralyzing emotion. It helps no one. From what I gather, the Dark Lady is not angry with you for some uncontrollable event in your past, but for your actions in the present.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he continued.

“Did you come to me for advice, or for a shoulder to cry on?” Nathanos said coldly. “Because I am short on the former, and completely lacking in the latter.”

Jaina shut her mouth, and glowered sullenly at him. 

“She can be taught. Wonders never cease,” he remarked dryly. 

Jaina’s voice swooped to a growl, “If you’re just going to insult me, then -!”

If anything, he seemed bored by her ire. “I told you: my advice does not come without its costs. And needling your pride is exactly the point of this conversation, seeing as it was your pride that landed you in this position in the first place.” He picked up the quill once more and dipped its tip into a vial of ink secured to the table so that its contents did not slosh everywhere. “I do not know the particulars of your quarrel. When the Dark Lady keeps her counsel, I know not to pry. However, I can hazard a guess from this encounter alone as to the nature of the altercation.”

For a man whose sole hobby seemed to be glaring in stoic silence, Nathanos sure did like the sound of his own voice. Jaina bit her tongue, and forced herself to listen.  

He tapped the swell of ink from the quill and struck up his work once more. “I have no doubt that you are sincere in your wish to help, but the way you frame it is -- quite frankly -- insulting. Before you arrived, Lady Proudmoore, we did not mindlessly rove the seas, praying that someone would save us from this torment.” 

His words were so reminiscent of her mother’s back at Proudmoore Keep, that Jaina had to swallow past a lump in her throat. A chill washed over her, and she allowed herself a moment to mull over the implication of that. For a while, the only sound in the great cabin was the scratch of the worn nib against parchment. Nathanos seemed perfectly content to leave their conversation at that, his head already bowed back over the maps. 

Jaina took a faltering step towards the door, only to pause. “Can you still -?” She cut herself off, before forging on. “Forgive me if this is an insensitive question, but can you still consume things? Food, I mean?”

At that, his eyebrows rose. He shot her a glance that was almost amused, and there was a tell-tale twitch of his trimmed beard. “We can. Though we derive little pleasure from it. Might I recommend a strong wine? I hear it goes wonderfully with amends.”

\--

Sylvanas wasn't sure whether to stare at the bottle or Jaina's face.

Surely the former was Nathanos' doing, for her second-in-command was the only one who could have given the mage such advice; the rest of her crew had never seen her drink, for they were not privy to the interior of the admiral's quarters. She grit her teeth at his meddling, but begrudgingly admitted that ignoring the woman she was trying to win a war with was not only poor tactics, but bordered on childish.

And she was certainly the elder between the two of them.

"Come in," Sylvanas murmured, gesturing before closing the cabin door shut behind Jaina. "Dare I ask where you got that?"

"I found out pretty young that most people have guards outside their wine cellars, but not in them." A spark of magic popped from Jaina's thumb, opening the bottle. "So it's easy to teleport inside and take what I like."

She withheld a snort of amusement. "Rebellious."

"Do you have glasses or should we just-" Jaina mimed drinking from the bottle. 

"Of course I have glasses." Sylvanas tugged open a low cabinet, finding where they were carefully wrapped in canvas. Dust lay on the glass from lack of use, but she polished them both and set them on her desk with a mild thud. "Pour away."

Jaina was generous with the wine, which was a risky thing on a ship. She supposed the mage was used to having every liquid around her bend to idle whim. Sylvanas belatedly realized her quarters only had a single chair, and tempting as it was to peer at Jaina like a queen on a throne, it wouldn't sate her anger. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed in silence, and gulped down the wine like a cheap port.

Except it was very, very good wine. Notes of honey and cedar burst across the back of Sylvanas' tongue, strong enough to register over long-dulled senses. She swallowed hard in haste, trying to make the gesture look graceful. Thankfully, Jaina seemed more occupied with her own contemplation, the cup held between her hands like a scrying basin.

"You would be right to hate me," Jaina said, soft after another stretch of silence. "Even if I couldn't have stopped Arthas, I should have tried. I think some part of me hoped that leaving would have proven to him how many lines he was about to cross."

As Sylvanas listened, she took another sip, slower this time. The tender fire in her throat was easier to bear than the one that consumed her before, the void of rage that sought new tinder even now. Jaina offered a branch of peace, one she could set ablaze in an instant.

"I'm probably making a mistake by admitting this," Jaina continued, taking the silence as encouragement. Bold as ever. "But you're my last hope. Which, now that I think about it, you must hear a lot when someone summons you."

"I'm rarely the first choice," Sylvanas replied, dry and even.

"And I've insulted you again." A laugh, self-effacing with disbelief, left Jaina's lips. It was a lighter sound that Sylvanas had never heard from her before. "I really am sorry. That may not mean anything at all, considering what I'm trying to apologize for, but I do mean it."

Sylvanas heard apologies--much less honest ones--far less. Even those who knew how she died rarely summoned sympathy, too possessed by the notion that she was a spectre to be destroyed, banished from the world of the living for good. She finished her glass, then held it out to be filled again.

"Well, at least you like the wine." Jaina smiled, small and wary but still genuine. After draining her own cup to the dregs, she topped off both at once. "Do you really want to kill me?"

A smirk pulled at the edge of Sylvanas' mouth. "At the moment? No more than I want to kill anyone else."

"That isn't the least bit comforting," Jaina declared, taking a considerable swallow from her glass. "You know, that said 'wine' on the bottle, but it tastes a lot stronger."

"Because you're guzzling it like a pirate who just earned her share." Of course she was doing much the same, but intoxication was a problem for the living. "Is apologizing all you came here to do?"

The comment was meant as another jab in the verbal duel, keeping movement between the two of them, but Jaina went still, as if a blade had been tipped under her throat instead. She coughed, then took another heady sip of the wine.

Sylvanas raised a brow. "It's a yes or no question."

"Of course," Jaina replied, a bit too quickly. "But when you asked me, I realized I didn't know the answer."

Even in the dim lantern-light of the cabin, Sylvanas read the faint flush across Jaina's face. She didn't care if the mage got drunk, but she was incapable of the same in turn. That she could even taste the wine enough to enjoy it was already stretching the limits of life her body could piece together from memory.

Hating Jaina Proudmoore would have been a simple thing. There were plenty of targets for her outrage, ones Sylvanas knew she could strike again and again. She could write off the human's accomplishments with fervor and spite, blame every kindness on misdirected guilt. Stratholme--fucking Stratholme.

Of course it angered her. That was an impossible thing to avoid, but here Jaina sat half-drunk and looking at her with something dangerously close to hope. Hope or...Sylvanas blinked, back straightening before she concealed the gesture as an adjustment for comfort. Yet she realized Jaina hadn't notice that either, since she was occupied with getting to the bottom of her glass once more.

"How many of those are you going to have?" Sylvanas asked, slowly rolling her wrist. It made the wine slip like a wave against the glass, drifting back and forth.

"More rather than less," Jaina said, giving the bottle an appraising look. Her face was certainly flushed, more so now than a moment before.

She reached back for Sylvanas' glass without looking. Their fingers brushed together, and whether it was the contact or the chill of her skin, Jaina jumped a little, muttering an apology under her breath.

"He would have killed you," Sylvanas whispered. Perhaps it was cruel to say the obvious out loud, but without the truth splayed out like dressed prey, the rest would fester. "Arthas, I mean. If you had tried to stop him then, that's all that would have happened. If he was willing to purge a city, leaving is the only thing that saved you from becoming a casualty."

Jaina stared at her, openly startled. Sylvanas knew she wanted to protest, to make herself a hero that had failed rather than a woman who was heartbroken, but the words never arose. They were cast upon Jaina's eyes like a glamour, caught between pain and apology.

"Sylvanas."

That those were the only syllables Jaina could muster said something else, but she refused to translate. Sylvanas set her glass on the desk rather than offering it up to be filled again, washing the emotion from her face until nothing remained but a blank slate.

"You're drunk and tired and grieving," Sylvanas said, softer than she meant to. Or perhaps, softer than she should have. "I can't be any of those things, so you should go to sleep."

Jaina's knee pressed against hers, a subtle shift that would have gone unnoticed, if not for the look in the mage's eyes. Too much was trapped in that gaze, trying to break free. Rather than court the cage, Sylvanas stood up, taking custody of the wine bottle with her.

"To bed with you." She laced the words with command. "And this is the only bed you have aboard the fleet, so don't complain about going far."

For some reason, that made Jaina laugh. Her empty glass was surrendered without another word, and as she bade to undress, Sylvanas averted her eyes. It wasn't until she heard the rustle of blankets that she dared to look back, just as a snap of Jaina's fingers banished every flame in the room.

In the dark, Sylvanas sat back down on the edge of the bed in silence. She stayed until Jaina fell asleep, expecting the thrash of nightmares to take her within moments.

Yet she rested in perfect peace, and Sylvanas didn't know what to make of that at all.

\--  
  



End file.
